 | A Modern Essay on the Tenth Satyr of Juvenal |  |
TO H. HIGDEN, Esq;
On his Modern Way of Translating JUVENAL'S Tenth SATYR.
If
Poets without Fiction in Applause
Of their lov'd Muse speak Truth in their own Cause;
And Wit to Favourites gives a Lawful Claim,
To be Inroll'd in Deathless Books of Fame.
Howe'er the Rest of the fam'd Sisters thrive,
And happily to Time's last Sand survive,
Satyr alone finds a Hard Task to live.
Even half a Key in th' highest Flights of Glory,
Unlocks whole Volumes of Heroick Story.
Vertue in Robes of Lasting Dye array'd,
Is down even to Remotest Time convey'd.
Great Deeds are Read so Plain, and spoke so loud,
Casting a Lustre which to Age can shroud;
Her bright Divinity breaks through the Cloud.
No Antique Garb can against Worth prevail;
Alcides struts with Club and Lyons Tayl;
And Bess looks Great in Ruff and Farthingale.
Thus whilst Heroicks their Great Theams display,
Stalking abroad in Fields and open Day:
Remarking Satyr must to Coverts creep,
Pry in close Grotts, and obscure Closets peep.
They Copy by so weak and faint a Light;
Vice is their Theam; in Masquerade they Write,
And slyly walkiin gloomy Scenes of Night,
Thus whilst the warm Intrigue is just found out
And the fresh Calumny is dealt about,
Murmur'd and buz'd through all the Tickled Rout:
Oh! with what Lawrel Wreaths is Satyr Crown'd!
How ravishing the smart Iambicks sound!
But when the Grin, the Sneer, and Jest is past,
(Malice that runs so swift, and tires as fast)
Poor Satyr then, the Nine Days Wonder done,
Strait lies Neglected, and Forgot as soon:
With its own Parent, Scandal, does expire;
The generous son of an Ignoble Sire.
The Poinant Gall that holds Authentick Text
This Age, is damn'd t' Apocrypha the next.
The Flowry Banks our pleased Forefathers knew,
O'regrown by Time, we a Rude Labyrinth view,
Where Commentators groap without a Clue.
Of their lov'd Muse speak Truth in their own Cause;
And Wit to Favourites gives a Lawful Claim,
To be Inroll'd in Deathless Books of Fame.
Howe'er the Rest of the fam'd Sisters thrive,
And happily to Time's last Sand survive,
Satyr alone finds a Hard Task to live.
Even half a Key in th' highest Flights of Glory,
Unlocks whole Volumes of Heroick Story.
Vertue in Robes of Lasting Dye array'd,
Is down even to Remotest Time convey'd.
Great Deeds are Read so Plain, and spoke so loud,
Casting a Lustre which to Age can shroud;
Her bright Divinity breaks through the Cloud.
No Antique Garb can against Worth prevail;
Alcides struts with Club and Lyons Tayl;
And Bess looks Great in Ruff and Farthingale.
Thus whilst Heroicks their Great Theams display,
Stalking abroad in Fields and open Day:
Remarking Satyr must to Coverts creep,
Pry in close Grotts, and obscure Closets peep.
They Copy by so weak and faint a Light;
Vice is their Theam; in Masquerade they Write,
And slyly walkiin gloomy Scenes of Night,
And the fresh Calumny is dealt about,
Murmur'd and buz'd through all the Tickled Rout:
Oh! with what Lawrel Wreaths is Satyr Crown'd!
How ravishing the smart Iambicks sound!
But when the Grin, the Sneer, and Jest is past,
(Malice that runs so swift, and tires as fast)
Poor Satyr then, the Nine Days Wonder done,
Strait lies Neglected, and Forgot as soon:
With its own Parent, Scandal, does expire;
The generous son of an Ignoble Sire.
The Poinant Gall that holds Authentick Text
This Age, is damn'd t' Apocrypha the next.
The Flowry Banks our pleased Forefathers knew,
O'regrown by Time, we a Rude Labyrinth view,
Where Commentators groap without a Clue.
Whilst Satyr destined to so Harsh a Doom,
Must undergo such Hardship ev'n at Home;
Alas! what must it suffer when it walks
Abroad, and in a Forreign Language talks!
Where Loads of Dross the precious Oar enfold,
Skilful must th' Artist be t' Extract the Gold;
One practised to the World and Muses Laws,
And well acquainted with the Face he draws.
Satyr to Trace at Heels, and poorly Line
For Line Translate, is such a weak Design,
Does even the Marks of Life, and Spirit want,
A Jargon worse than a Fanatick Cant:
A Wise Attempt, and Justify'd by none
But some Enthusiast Prophet of their own.
Must undergo such Hardship ev'n at Home;
Alas! what must it suffer when it walks
Abroad, and in a Forreign Language talks!
Where Loads of Dross the precious Oar enfold,
Skilful must th' Artist be t' Extract the Gold;
One practised to the World and Muses Laws,
And well acquainted with the Face he draws.
Satyr to Trace at Heels, and poorly Line
For Line Translate, is such a weak Design,
Does even the Marks of Life, and Spirit want,
A Jargon worse than a Fanatick Cant:
A Wise Attempt, and Justify'd by none
But some Enthusiast Prophet of their own.
Thy Pencil scorns a Portraicture so faint:
Thou animate'st, what such dead Colours paint:
You Naturalize the Author you Translate,
And Classick Roman dress in Modern State.
Sprightly and Gay he makes his Visit here;
Drest Al-a-mode, and speaks en Cavalier;
Great Juvenal's Wit, who in an English Scene,
By Time's long Rust at best had pointless been,
Thou grind'st to a New Edge, to cut more keen.
From Letts and Rubbish clear'st the craggy Shore,
And driv'st thy own Triumphant Chariot o're.
His distant Heat does by thy Labour burn,
And Rear thy Phenix from his Spicey Urne.
Thou animate'st, what such dead Colours paint:
You Naturalize the Author you Translate,
And Classick Roman dress in Modern State.
Sprightly and Gay he makes his Visit here;
Drest Al-a-mode, and speaks en Cavalier;
Great Juvenal's Wit, who in an English Scene,
By Time's long Rust at best had pointless been,
Thou grind'st to a New Edge, to cut more keen.
From Letts and Rubbish clear'st the craggy Shore,
And driv'st thy own Triumphant Chariot o're.
His distant Heat does by thy Labour burn,
And Rear thy Phenix from his Spicey Urne.
E. Settle.
| A Modern Essay on the Tenth Satyr of Juvenal | |