An Essay on Translated Verse By the Earl of Roscommon [i.e. Wentworth Dillon]. The Second Edition Corrected and Enlarg'd |
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To the Earl of ROSCOMON. ON HIS Excellent POEM. |
 | An Essay on Translated Verse |  |
To the Earl of ROSCOMON. ON HIS Excellent POEM.
As when by labouring Stars new Kingdoms rise
The mighty Mass in rude confusion lies,
A Court unform'd, disorder at the Bar,
And even in Peace the rugged Meen of War,
Till some wise States-man into Method draws
The parts, and Animates the frame with Laws;
Such was the case when Chaucer's early toyl
Founded the Muses Empire in our Soyl.
Spencer improv'd it with his painful hand,
But lost a Noble Muse in Fairy-land.
Shakespear say'd all that Nature cou'd impart,
And Johnson added Industry and Art.
Cowley, and Denham gain'd immortal praise;
And some who merit as they wear, the Bays.
Search'd all the Treasuries of Greece, and Rome,
And brought the precious spoils in Triumph home.
But still our language had some ancient trust,
Our flights were often high but seldom just.
There wanted one who license could restrain,
Make Civil Laws o're Barbarous Usage reign:
One worthy in Apollo's Chair to sit
To hold the Scales, and give the Stamp of Wit.
In whom ripe judgement and Young fancy meet,
And force the Poets Rage to be discreet.
Who grows not nauseous whiles he strives to please:
But marks the Shelves in the Poetic Seas,
Who knows, and teaches what our Clime can bear,
And makes the barren ground obey the labourers care.
The mighty Mass in rude confusion lies,
A Court unform'd, disorder at the Bar,
And even in Peace the rugged Meen of War,
Till some wise States-man into Method draws
The parts, and Animates the frame with Laws;
Such was the case when Chaucer's early toyl
Founded the Muses Empire in our Soyl.
Spencer improv'd it with his painful hand,
But lost a Noble Muse in Fairy-land.
Shakespear say'd all that Nature cou'd impart,
And Johnson added Industry and Art.
Cowley, and Denham gain'd immortal praise;
And some who merit as they wear, the Bays.
Search'd all the Treasuries of Greece, and Rome,
And brought the precious spoils in Triumph home.
But still our language had some ancient trust,
Our flights were often high but seldom just.
There wanted one who license could restrain,
Make Civil Laws o're Barbarous Usage reign:
One worthy in Apollo's Chair to sit
To hold the Scales, and give the Stamp of Wit.
And force the Poets Rage to be discreet.
Who grows not nauseous whiles he strives to please:
But marks the Shelves in the Poetic Seas,
Who knows, and teaches what our Clime can bear,
And makes the barren ground obey the labourers care.
Few cou'd conceive, none the great work cou'd do,
'Tis a fresh Province, and reserv'd for You.
'Tis a fresh Province, and reserv'd for You.
Those Talents all are yours; of which but One,
Where a Fair fortune for a Muses Son.
Wit, reading, judgment, conversation, art,
A head well ballanc'd, and a generous heart.
While insect Rhymes cloud the polluted Skie,
Created to molest the world, and die,
Your File do's polish, what your Fancy cast,
Works are long forming, which must always last.
Rough iron-sense, and stubborn to the Mold
Touch'd by your Chimic hand is turn'd to Gold:
A secret Grace fashions the flowing lines,
And inspiration thro' the Labour shines.
Writers in spight of all their paint and Art,
Betray the darling passion of their heart.
No Fame you wound, give no chast ears offence;
Still true to Friendship, Modesty, and Sence.
So Saints from Heaven for our example sent,
Live to their Rules, having nothing to repent.
Horace, if living, by exchange of fate,
Wou'd give no Laws, but only yours translate,
Where a Fair fortune for a Muses Son.
Wit, reading, judgment, conversation, art,
A head well ballanc'd, and a generous heart.
While insect Rhymes cloud the polluted Skie,
Created to molest the world, and die,
Your File do's polish, what your Fancy cast,
Works are long forming, which must always last.
Rough iron-sense, and stubborn to the Mold
Touch'd by your Chimic hand is turn'd to Gold:
A secret Grace fashions the flowing lines,
And inspiration thro' the Labour shines.
Writers in spight of all their paint and Art,
Betray the darling passion of their heart.
No Fame you wound, give no chast ears offence;
Still true to Friendship, Modesty, and Sence.
So Saints from Heaven for our example sent,
Live to their Rules, having nothing to repent.
Wou'd give no Laws, but only yours translate,
Hoist Sail, bold VVriters, search, discover far,
You have a Compass for a Polar-Star.
Tune Orpheus Harp, and with enchanting Rhymes
Soften the savage humour of the Times.
You have a Compass for a Polar-Star.
Tune Orpheus Harp, and with enchanting Rhymes
Soften the savage humour of the Times.
Tell all those untouch'd Wonders which appear'd
When Fate it self for our Great Monarch fear'd:
Securely thro' the dangerous Forrest led
By guards of Angels when his own were fled.
Heaven kindly exercis'd his Youth with Cares
To crown with unmix'd joys his riper years.
When Fate it self for our Great Monarch fear'd:
Securely thro' the dangerous Forrest led
By guards of Angels when his own were fled.
Heaven kindly exercis'd his Youth with Cares
To crown with unmix'd joys his riper years.
Make Warlike James's peaceful vertues known,
The second Hope and Genius of the Throne.
Heaven in compassion brought him on our Stage
To tame the fury of a monstrous Age.
The second Hope and Genius of the Throne.
Heaven in compassion brought him on our Stage
To tame the fury of a monstrous Age.
But what blest voice shall your Maria sing?
Or a fit offering to her Altars bring?
In joys, in grief, in triumphs, in retreat,
Great always, without aiming to be Great.
Beauty and Love sit awful in her Face;
And every gesture form'd by every Grace.
Her Glories are too Heavenly, and refin'd,
For the Gross senses of a Vulgar mind.
Or a fit offering to her Altars bring?
In joys, in grief, in triumphs, in retreat,
Great always, without aiming to be Great.
Beauty and Love sit awful in her Face;
And every gesture form'd by every Grace.
Her Glories are too Heavenly, and refin'd,
For the Gross senses of a Vulgar mind.
It is your part, (you Poets can divine)
To prophecy how she by Heavens design
Shall give an Heir to the Great British Line,
Who over all the Western Isles shall reign,
Both aw the Continent, and rule the Main.
It is Your Place to wait upon her Name
Thro' the vast regions of Eternal fame.
To prophecy how she by Heavens design
Shall give an Heir to the Great British Line,
Who over all the Western Isles shall reign,
Both aw the Continent, and rule the Main.
It is Your Place to wait upon her Name
Thro' the vast regions of Eternal fame.
True Poets souls to Princes are ally'd,
And the Worlds Empire with its Kings divide.
Heaven trusts the present time to Monarchs care,
Eternity is the Good Writers share.
And the Worlds Empire with its Kings divide.
Heaven trusts the present time to Monarchs care,
Eternity is the Good Writers share.
Knightly Chetwood.
| An Essay on Translated Verse | |