The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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TO Mr. DRYDEN, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS. |
 | The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve |  |
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TO Mr. DRYDEN, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.
As when of Old Heroick Story tells
Of Knights imprison'd long by Magic Spells,
'Till future Time the destin'd Hero send,
By whom, the dire Enchantment is to end:
Such seems this Work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great Revealer of dark Poesie.
Of Knights imprison'd long by Magic Spells,
'Till future Time the destin'd Hero send,
By whom, the dire Enchantment is to end:
Such seems this Work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great Revealer of dark Poesie.
Those sullen Clouds, which have for Ages past,
O'er Persius's too-long-suff'ring Muse been cast,
Disperse, and flie before thy Sacred Pen,
And, in their room, bright tracks of Light are seen.
Sure Phœbus self thy swelling Breast inspires,
The God of Musick, and Poetick Fires:
Else, whence proceeds this great Surprise of Light!
How dawns this Day, forth from the Womb of Night!
O'er Persius's too-long-suff'ring Muse been cast,
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And, in their room, bright tracks of Light are seen.
Sure Phœbus self thy swelling Breast inspires,
The God of Musick, and Poetick Fires:
Else, whence proceeds this great Surprise of Light!
How dawns this Day, forth from the Womb of Night!
Our Wonder, now, does our past Folly show,
Vainly Contemning what we did not know:
So, Unbelievers impiously despise
The Sacred Oracles, in Mysteries.
Persius, before, in small Esteem was had,
Unless, what to Antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with Scruple read,
(So far, our Ignorance, our Faith mis-led)
'Till you, Apollo's darling Priest, thought fit
To place it in the Poet's Sacred Writ.
Vainly Contemning what we did not know:
So, Unbelievers impiously despise
The Sacred Oracles, in Mysteries.
Persius, before, in small Esteem was had,
Unless, what to Antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with Scruple read,
(So far, our Ignorance, our Faith mis-led)
'Till you, Apollo's darling Priest, thought fit
To place it in the Poet's Sacred Writ.
As Coin, which bears some awful Monarch's Face,
For more than its intrinsick Worth will pass:
So your bright Image, which we here behold,
Adds Worth to Worth, and dignifies the Gold.
To you, we, all this following Treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a Rock did flow.
For more than its intrinsick Worth will pass:
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Adds Worth to Worth, and dignifies the Gold.
To you, we, all this following Treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a Rock did flow.
Old Stoick Virtue, clad in rugged Lines,
Polish'd by you, in Modern Brillant shines:
And as before, for Persius, our Esteem
To his Antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever Praise from us is due,
Belongs not to Old Persius, but the New.
For still Obscure, to us no Light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.
Polish'd by you, in Modern Brillant shines:
And as before, for Persius, our Esteem
To his Antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever Praise from us is due,
Belongs not to Old Persius, but the New.
For still Obscure, to us no Light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.
So, stubborn Flints their inward Heat conceal,
'Till Art and Force th'unwilling Sparks reveal;
But thro' your Skill, from those small Seeds of Fire,
Bright Flames arise, which never can Expire.
'Till Art and Force th'unwilling Sparks reveal;
But thro' your Skill, from those small Seeds of Fire,
Bright Flames arise, which never can Expire.
| The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | |