 | Poems and Translations |  |
ix
TO Mr. Christopher Pitt, ON HIS Poems and Translations.
Forgive th'ambitious Fondness of a Friend,
For such thy Worth, 'tis Glory to commend;
To Thee, from Judgment, such Applause is due,
I praise my self while I am praising you;
As he who bears the lighted Torch, receives
Himself assistance from the Light he gives.
For such thy Worth, 'tis Glory to commend;
To Thee, from Judgment, such Applause is due,
I praise my self while I am praising you;
As he who bears the lighted Torch, receives
Himself assistance from the Light he gives.
So much you please, so vast is my Delight,
Thy, ev'n thy Fancy cannot reach its height.
In vain I strive to make the Transport known,
No Language can describe it but thy Own.
Could'st thou thy Genius pour into my Heart,
Thy copious Fancy, thy engaging Art,
Thy vigorous Thoughts, thy manly Flow of Sense,
Thy strong and glowing Paint of Eloquence;
Then should'st thou well conceive that Happiness,
Which I alone can feel, and you express.
Thy, ev'n thy Fancy cannot reach its height.
x
No Language can describe it but thy Own.
Could'st thou thy Genius pour into my Heart,
Thy copious Fancy, thy engaging Art,
Thy vigorous Thoughts, thy manly Flow of Sense,
Thy strong and glowing Paint of Eloquence;
Then should'st thou well conceive that Happiness,
Which I alone can feel, and you express.
In Scenes which thy Invention sets to view,
Forgive me, Friend, if I lose sight of You;
I see with how much Spirit Homer thought,
With how much Judgment cooler Virgil wrote;
In every Line, in every Word you speak,
I read the Roman, and confess the Greek;
Forgetting Thee, my Soul with Rapture swell'd,
Cries out, how much the ancient Bards excell'd!
But when thy just Translations introduce
To nearer Converse any Latian Muse,
The several Beauties you so well express,
I lose the Roman in the British Dress!
Sweetly deceiv'd, the Ancients I contemn,
And with mistaken Zeal to Thee exclaim,
(By so much Nature, so much Art betray'd)
What vast Improvements have our Moderns made!
Forgive me, Friend, if I lose sight of You;
I see with how much Spirit Homer thought,
With how much Judgment cooler Virgil wrote;
In every Line, in every Word you speak,
I read the Roman, and confess the Greek;
Forgetting Thee, my Soul with Rapture swell'd,
Cries out, how much the ancient Bards excell'd!
But when thy just Translations introduce
To nearer Converse any Latian Muse,
The several Beauties you so well express,
I lose the Roman in the British Dress!
xi
And with mistaken Zeal to Thee exclaim,
(By so much Nature, so much Art betray'd)
What vast Improvements have our Moderns made!
How vain and unsuccessful seems the Toil,
To raise such precious Fruits in foreign Soil:
They mourn, transplanted to another Coast,
Their Beauties languid, and their Flavor lost!
But such thy Art, the ripening Colours glow
As pure as those their native Suns bestow;
Not an insipid Beauty only yield,
But breathe the Odours of Ausonia's Field.
Such is the genuine Flavor, it belyes
Their stranger Soil, and unacquainted Skies.
To raise such precious Fruits in foreign Soil:
They mourn, transplanted to another Coast,
Their Beauties languid, and their Flavor lost!
But such thy Art, the ripening Colours glow
As pure as those their native Suns bestow;
Not an insipid Beauty only yield,
But breathe the Odours of Ausonia's Field.
Such is the genuine Flavor, it belyes
Their stranger Soil, and unacquainted Skies.
Vida no more the long Oblivion fears,
Which hid his Virtues thro' a length of Years;
Ally'd to Thee, he lives again; thy Rhimes
Shall friendly hand him down to latest Times;
Shall do his injur'd Reputation right,
While in thy Work with such Success unite
His Strength of Judgment, and his Charms of Speech,
That Precepts please, and Musick seems to teach.
Which hid his Virtues thro' a length of Years;
Ally'd to Thee, he lives again; thy Rhimes
Shall friendly hand him down to latest Times;
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While in thy Work with such Success unite
His Strength of Judgment, and his Charms of Speech,
That Precepts please, and Musick seems to teach.
Lest unimprov'd I seem to read thee o'er,
Th'unhallow'd Rapture I indulge no more;
By Thee instructed, I the Task forsake,
Nor for chaste Love, the Lust of Verse mistake;
Thy Works that rais'd this Frenzy in my Soul,
Shall teach the giddy Tumult to controul:
Warm'd as I am with every Muse's Charms,
Since the coy Virgins fly my eager Arms,
I'll quit the Work, throw by my strong Desire,
And from thy Praise, reluctantly retire.
Th'unhallow'd Rapture I indulge no more;
By Thee instructed, I the Task forsake,
Nor for chaste Love, the Lust of Verse mistake;
Thy Works that rais'd this Frenzy in my Soul,
Shall teach the giddy Tumult to controul:
Warm'd as I am with every Muse's Charms,
Since the coy Virgins fly my eager Arms,
I'll quit the Work, throw by my strong Desire,
And from thy Praise, reluctantly retire.
G.Ridley.
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