Vpon a Reviewe of Virgil, translated by Mr. Ogilby.
This, not to Virgil, whom I did Admire;
Not led by Custome, but a secret fire
Shot through my Soule, from his abundant Ray;
And not by Votes, led to what others Say;
I did, and doe admire Him; and I thought
A brave Adventure 'twas, who ever brought
Him, to speake current English, in the rate
Our Langvage carries now; but I may Say't
(Without a Boast) vpon this second veiwe,
This Qvill has done All that, and doth pursue
The heights of fancye, equall to his owne,
In a quicke flame, and full expression;
In weight, and number, great as the first Soule
inflamèd Virgil; moveing on the whole
Bodie, with the same Sinnewes, not a Nerve
Lost, to its vse; (lest Life, & Blood might Sterve
Within obstructed Channels;) everie veine
Rises, as High, and to be seene as plaine.
May wee beleive the Rants, some Chimists make,
To consume Bodies, which againe shall take
Being and forme; (a Resurrective Tipe
From dust & Ashes,) th' individuall, ripe
To all its former beauties, they can raise
Numerically iust, to what it was;
These Curiosities layd out, may please
Yonge Heads; & profit old Huniades,
Who has found out ye true Elixir; which
T' attempt, makes others poore, has made Him, rich.
But Wee, who move beyond Philosophye
In these Experiments, will credit thee
Great Oracle of Samos; and averre
Soules are not lost, or Dye, but doe transfer;
And the great Genius of ye Mantuan, fir'd
In a fit Clay, now breaths the same admir'd
Accents, which never any durst assay
To imitate, or open, to this Day;
But one, who with a rude & tedious Qvill
Doth wound his Readers, & his Author, Kill;
Virgil is dull & Lost; and only Phaer
Resolves his words, verball Interpreter.
Such, in a Prose, to duller Heads, may Stand
With honest meaning; But let noe bold hand
Attempt a Poet, 'cause he learnèd once
To construe Latin; and soe caught, by chance,
A Flye, in yawning; ther's a rule beyond
Your Syntax; tis a Sympathie of mind;
A Soule enricht with sacred flame, to all
The Author's Spirrit, in th' originall;
A Genius, to the primitive conceit;
Con-centricke wheels, with motion, to ye great
Idea fixt; not Skip & catch by turnes,
Or make his owne, while the rack'd Author mourns,
Tortur'd, in clumsie fingers; White Hands may
Open ye folds, and draw the veile away;
Some, now tormented thus; for all Soules have
Not Rest, when their cold Bodies kisse the Grave;
But Sensible in some things, suffer to
The iniuries Posteritie may doe
Vpon their Labours; Some, (in those blest Shades
Lost to their owne, by what noe time invades
As they bequeath'd it; in another tongve
Another Note, they know not what they Sung;)
Frequent the Corners & ashamèd sitt
Vnder vnverdant Trees; their Hands commit
Outrage on holy boughs; for through ye Place
Is nothing witherd: but still-virent Bayes
Narcissus, Hyacinth, Sweet Asphodel,
(And what our Langvage may not reach to tell)
Appeare, and make Elizium but one Grove;
Only ye Skirts, some Soules (less happie) rove;
Whose Relicts, handled by foule Thumbs, have lost
Their native Lustre; These, (who left, to boast
Numbers, which not vnworthily have plac'd
Them in Elizium, yet) on Earth disgrac'd
Would beg a Pasport, (but, who can convey
Soules, happie-seated) to revisit Day;
There, they must vexe; at lest, not there posses
Entire fruition, of a perfect Peace;
Till Time, (which fitts the Earth, to make one place
Of many orbes) shall throw away his Glasse;
Or raise another Qvill, to vindicate
The Author, and enthrone him in his State;
Here (till repairèd thus) they not inherit;
The weed, they would put on, they cannot weare it;
Triflers, on Earth, are tugging at ye Sleeves,
Ruffle ye folds, and the full Skirt vpheav's.
Soe this restorèd Maro, for a while
(Time is not measur'd there) pinch't, in ye toyle
Of all his Glorie, suffer'd; now, hee treads
Free, as Musæus, & ye clearest Heads
Of that blest confine; if a Limit may
Be set, where nothing bounds; for Place, they Say
Is but our Image; high, & purgèd Soules
Leave Time & Place, to dull earthporing fooles;
There, like Himselfe, in his first Station
Hee moves, vnchangèd in ye version;
All Hee now doth, (& not wth care) is but
To Harbinger his learnèd name, who put
New Robes of Glory on his great Remains;
Radiant, as Light; & Truth-like, free from Stains;
There, Hee prepares them, to receive a Gvest
Worthy their Harmony, their Ioy, their Rest;
And frames loud Pæans, Him to gratulate,
Worthily plac'd neare to his owne high Seate.
Soe did Great Homer, and Theocritus
Take Qvarters vp, for Virgil's living Muse;
Though to a different Honour Homer sung,
He caught his from Him, not to doe him wrong;
And Hesiod there, who sung of Ceres most,
Gave his Corne-Chaplets, Virgil's better boast,
When Hee arriv'd; Hee now his owne hath torne
In equall parts, equally to adorne
His freind; for 'tis vnlawfull any (but
Virgill's owne Selfe) another's wreath on putt;
They may participate, Soe share it there,
As they have Rivall'd in their fancyes here.
What more, may not be told; tis only left
To those who shall enioy those Ioyes, a gift;
Mean-while, iust Admirations may raise
Merit, on Earth; to give desert, a place
Beyond ye mouth of Envie; thus I yeild
My double Tribute; Hee that cannot weild
Armes, must confer his Power another way;
All cannot all things dexterously assay;
And that I may not end, without a breath
From Virgill's mouth; take it, as I bequeath
It to ye world, in Honour of this Pen,
Who made Him speake, a Dialect, for men
To wonder at; a worke worthy his Bayes
See; now Ascanius keeps an Equall pace.
July 2nd 1647. G. Daniel:
