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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 | An Essay on Translated Verse |  |
------ Fungar vice Cotis, acutum
Reddere quæ ferrum valet Exsori ipsa secandi.
Hor. de Art. Poet.
Reddere quæ ferrum valet Exsori ipsa secandi.
Hor. de Art. Poet.
Cape Dona Extrema Tuorum.
V. 3. Æ.
V. 3. Æ.
To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse.
Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian Shore,The seeds of Arts and Infant Science bore,
'Tis sure the noble Plant, translated first,
Advanc'd its head in Grecian Gardens nurst.
The Grecians added Verse, their tuneful Tongue
Made Nature first, and Nature's God their song.
Nor stopt Translation here: For conquering Rome
With Grecian Spoils, brought Grecian Numbers home;
Enrich'd by those Athenian Muses more,
Than all the vanquish'd World cou'd yeild before.
'Till barb'rous Nations and more barb'rous Times
Debas'd the Majesty of Verse to Rhimes;
Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling Prose:
That limp'd a long, and tinckl'd in the close:
But Italy reviving from the trance
Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well vowell'd words,
And all the Graces a good Ear affords,
Made Rhyme an Art, and Dante's polish'd page
Restor'd a silver, not a golden Age:
Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see,
What Rhyme improv'd in all its height can be;
At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity:
In Manly sweetness all the rest surpass'd.
The Wit of Greece, the Gravity of Rome
Appear exalted in the British Loome;
The Muses Empire is restor'd agen,
In Charles his Reign, and by Roscomon's Pen.
Yet modestly he does his Work survey,
And calls a finish'd Poem an ESSAY;
For all the needful Rules are scatter'd here;
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe;
(So well is Art disguis'd, for Nature to appear.)
Nor need those Rules, to give Translation light;
His own example is a flame so bright;
That he, who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance; unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own Horace cou'd such Rules ordain;
Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising Ireland boast,
How much in gaining him has Britain lost!
Their Island in revenge has ours reclaim'd,
The more instructed we, the more we still are sham'd.
'Tis well for us his generous bloud did flow
Deriv'd from British Channels long ago,
That here his conquering Ancestors were nurst;
And Ireland but translated England first:
By this Reprisal we regain our right,
Else must the two contending Nations fight,
Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.
To what perfection will our Tongue arrive,
How will Invention and Translation thrive
When Authors nobly born will bear their part,
And not disdain th'inglorious praise of Art!
Great Generals thus descending from command,
With their own toil provoke the Souldiers hand.
How will sweet Ovid's Ghost be pleas'd to hear
His Fame augmented by an English Peer,
How he embellishes His Helen's loves,
Out does his softness, and his sense improves?
When these translate, and teach Translators too,
Nor Firstling Kid, nor any vulgar vow
Shou'd at Apollo's grateful Altar stand;
Roscomon writes, to that auspicious hand,
Muse feed the Bull that spurns the yellow sand.
Roscomon, whom both Court and Camps commend,
True to his Prince, and faithful to his friend;
Roscomon first in Fields of Honour known,
First in the peaceful Triumphs of the Gown;
Who both Minerva's justly makes his own.
Now let the few belov'd by Jove, and they,
Whom infus'd Titan form'd of better Clay,
On equal terms with ancient Wit ingage,
Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page:
Our English Palace opens wide in state;
And without stooping they may pass the Gate.
JOHN DRYDEN.
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.
To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse.
While
Satyr pleas'd, and nothing else was writ
But pure ill nature pass'd for noblest Wit.
Some priviledg'd Climes the poisonous weeds refuse:
But when a generous understanding Muse
Does richer fruits from happier soils Translate,
W' are sent to Ireland, by reverse of fate.
Yet you, I know, with Plato would disdain
To write and equal the Mæonian strain?
If 'twould debauch your humour so far forth
To think so mean a thing, enhanc'd your worth.
For were that praise, and only that your due,
Which Virgil too might claim no less than you,
Tho that had merited my bare esteem,
I'de leave to other pens the single Theme.
But when I saw the Candor of your mind,
A Muse inur'd to Camps, in Courts refin'd,
A Soul e'vn capable of being a friend.
Free from those follies which the great attend;
I grant such excellence my Soul did fire,
Unable to commend, I will admire.
But pure ill nature pass'd for noblest Wit.
Some priviledg'd Climes the poisonous weeds refuse:
But when a generous understanding Muse
Does richer fruits from happier soils Translate,
W' are sent to Ireland, by reverse of fate.
Yet you, I know, with Plato would disdain
To write and equal the Mæonian strain?
To think so mean a thing, enhanc'd your worth.
For were that praise, and only that your due,
Which Virgil too might claim no less than you,
Tho that had merited my bare esteem,
I'de leave to other pens the single Theme.
But when I saw the Candor of your mind,
A Muse inur'd to Camps, in Courts refin'd,
A Soul e'vn capable of being a friend.
Free from those follies which the great attend;
I grant such excellence my Soul did fire,
Unable to commend, I will admire.
‘Happy the man when no concern is nigh,
‘But Nature's wanton, and his blood runs high,
‘Who free from Cares enjoys without controul,
‘His Muse, the darling Mistriss of his Soul,
‘No tedious Court his appetite destroys,
‘Nor thoughts of gain pollute the rapturous Joys.
‘The Dear Minerva's form'd without a pain
‘And nothing less, could spring from such a brain.
‘And yet his Godlike pity he imparts
‘To those that drudge at Duty against their hearts,
‘And to illiberal uses wrest the Liberal Arts—
‘But Nature's wanton, and his blood runs high,
‘Who free from Cares enjoys without controul,
‘His Muse, the darling Mistriss of his Soul,
‘No tedious Court his appetite destroys,
‘Nor thoughts of gain pollute the rapturous Joys.
‘The Dear Minerva's form'd without a pain
‘And nothing less, could spring from such a brain.
‘And yet his Godlike pity he imparts
‘To those that drudge at Duty against their hearts,
‘And to illiberal uses wrest the Liberal Arts—
When I observe the wonders you explain
Too much the Antients you commend—in vain,
In vain you would endeavour to perswade
That all our Laws were in those Archives laid:
That Poetry must ever stand unmov'd,
The only art Experience ha'nt improv'd.
But grant their rites were to Religion grown,
Sure they concern no Countrys but their own:
For let Æneid pass through other hands,
The Æneids self a third-rate Poet stands:
Unfit to reach the heights that he has flown,
We wisely to our level bring him down,
Himself had writ'less sweet, and less sublime
In any other tongue or other time.
Too much the Antients you commend—in vain,
That all our Laws were in those Archives laid:
That Poetry must ever stand unmov'd,
The only art Experience ha'nt improv'd.
But grant their rites were to Religion grown,
Sure they concern no Countrys but their own:
For let Æneid pass through other hands,
The Æneids self a third-rate Poet stands:
Unfit to reach the heights that he has flown,
We wisely to our level bring him down,
Himself had writ'less sweet, and less sublime
In any other tongue or other time.
And now, my Lord, on this account I grieve,
To think how different from your self you'l live.
When this inimitable peice is shown,
In Languages and Empires yet unknown.
It will be Learning then to know and hear
Not only what you wrote, but what you were.
To think how different from your self you'l live.
When this inimitable peice is shown,
In Languages and Empires yet unknown.
It will be Learning then to know and hear
Not only what you wrote, but what you were.
J. Amherst.
1
AN ESSAY ON Translated Verse.
Happy that Author, whose correct Essay
Repairs so well our Old Horatian way
And happy you, who (by propitious fate)
On great Apollo's sacred Standard wait,
And with strict discipline instructed right,
Have learn'd to use your arms before you fight.
But since the Press, the Pulpit, and the Stage,
Conspire to censure and expose our Age
Provok'd, Too far, we resolutely must
To the few Vertues that we have, be just.
For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more
To search the Treasures of the Roman store;
Or dig in Grecian Mines for purer Oar;
The noblest Fruits Transplanted in our Isle
With early Hope, and fragrant Blossoms smile.
Familiar Ovid tender thoughts inspires,
And Nature seconds all his soft Desires:
Theocritus do's now to Us belong;
And Albion's Rocks repeat his Rural Song.
Who has not heard how Italy was blest,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy East?
Or Gallus Song, so tender, and so true,
As evn Lycoris might with pity view!
When Mourning Nymphs attend their Daphni's Herse
Who do's not Weep, that Reads the moving Verse!
But hear, oh hear, in what exalted streins
Sicilian Muses through these happy Plains,
Proclaim Saturnian Times, our own Apollo Reigns.
Repairs so well our Old Horatian way
And happy you, who (by propitious fate)
On great Apollo's sacred Standard wait,
And with strict discipline instructed right,
Have learn'd to use your arms before you fight.
But since the Press, the Pulpit, and the Stage,
Conspire to censure and expose our Age
2
To the few Vertues that we have, be just.
For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more
To search the Treasures of the Roman store;
Or dig in Grecian Mines for purer Oar;
The noblest Fruits Transplanted in our Isle
With early Hope, and fragrant Blossoms smile.
Familiar Ovid tender thoughts inspires,
And Nature seconds all his soft Desires:
Theocritus do's now to Us belong;
And Albion's Rocks repeat his Rural Song.
Who has not heard how Italy was blest,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy East?
Or Gallus Song, so tender, and so true,
As evn Lycoris might with pity view!
When Mourning Nymphs attend their Daphni's Herse
Who do's not Weep, that Reads the moving Verse!
3
Sicilian Muses through these happy Plains,
Proclaim Saturnian Times, our own Apollo Reigns.
When France had breath'd, after intestine Broils,
And Peace, and Conquest crown'd her forreign Toils,
There (cultivated by a Royal Hand)
Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the Land;
The choicest Books, that Rome, or Greece have known,
Her excellent Translators made her own:
And Europe still considerably, that she gains,
Both by their good Example and their Pains.
From hence our gen'rous Emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
But now, We shew the world a nobler way,
And in Translated Verse, do more than They.
Serene, and clear, Harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be exprest in Prose.
Degrading Prose explains his meaning ill,
And shews the Stuff, but not the Workman's skill.
I (who have serv'd him more than twenty years)
Scarce know my Master as he there appears.
Vain are our Neighbours Hopes, and Vain their Cares,
The Fault is more their Languages, than theirs.
'Tis Courtly, florid, and abounds in words;
Of softer sound than our perhaps affords.
But who did ever in French Authors see
The Comprehensive, English Energy?
The weighty Bullion of One Sterling Line,
Drawn to French Wire, would thro' whole Pages shine.
I speak my private, but impartial sense,
With Freedom, and (I hope) without offence:
For I'le Recant, when France can shew me Wit,
As strong as Ours, and as succinctly Writ.
Tis true, Composing is the Nobler Part,
But good Translation is no easie Art:
For tho Materials have long since been found,
Yet both your fancy, and your Hands are bound;
And by Improving what was writ Before;
Invention Labours' Less, but Judgment, more.
And Peace, and Conquest crown'd her forreign Toils,
There (cultivated by a Royal Hand)
Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the Land;
The choicest Books, that Rome, or Greece have known,
Her excellent Translators made her own:
And Europe still considerably, that she gains,
Both by their good Example and their Pains.
From hence our gen'rous Emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
But now, We shew the world a nobler way,
And in Translated Verse, do more than They.
Serene, and clear, Harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be exprest in Prose.
4
And shews the Stuff, but not the Workman's skill.
I (who have serv'd him more than twenty years)
Scarce know my Master as he there appears.
Vain are our Neighbours Hopes, and Vain their Cares,
The Fault is more their Languages, than theirs.
'Tis Courtly, florid, and abounds in words;
Of softer sound than our perhaps affords.
But who did ever in French Authors see
The Comprehensive, English Energy?
The weighty Bullion of One Sterling Line,
Drawn to French Wire, would thro' whole Pages shine.
I speak my private, but impartial sense,
With Freedom, and (I hope) without offence:
For I'le Recant, when France can shew me Wit,
As strong as Ours, and as succinctly Writ.
5
But good Translation is no easie Art:
For tho Materials have long since been found,
Yet both your fancy, and your Hands are bound;
And by Improving what was writ Before;
Invention Labours' Less, but Judgment, more.
The Soil intended for Pierian seeds;
Must be well purg'd from rank Pedantick Weeds.
Apollo starts, and all Parnassus shakes,
At the rude Rumbling Baralipton makes.
For none have been with Admiration, read,
But who (beside their Learning) were Well-bred.
Must be well purg'd from rank Pedantick Weeds.
Apollo starts, and all Parnassus shakes,
At the rude Rumbling Baralipton makes.
For none have been with Admiration, read,
But who (beside their Learning) were Well-bred.
THE first great work, (a Task perform'd by few),
Is, that your self may to your self be True:
No Masque, no Tricks, no Favour, no Reserve;
Dissect your Mind, examine ev'ry Nerve.
Whoever Vainly on his strength depends,
Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius, Ends.
That wretch (in spight of his forgotten Rhymes)
Condemn'd to Live to all succeeding Times,
With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing sound
Sung lofty Ilium, Tumbling to the Ground.
And (if my Muse can through past Ages see)
That Noisy, Nauseous, Gaping Fool was He;
Exploded, when with universal scorn,
The Mountains Labour'd and a Mouse was Born.
Is, that your self may to your self be True:
No Masque, no Tricks, no Favour, no Reserve;
Dissect your Mind, examine ev'ry Nerve.
6
Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius, Ends.
That wretch (in spight of his forgotten Rhymes)
Condemn'd to Live to all succeeding Times,
With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing sound
Sung lofty Ilium, Tumbling to the Ground.
And (if my Muse can through past Ages see)
That Noisy, Nauseous, Gaping Fool was He;
Exploded, when with universal scorn,
The Mountains Labour'd and a Mouse was Born.
Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler cryes
Audacious Mortals, and be Timely Wise!
'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,
Wedgd in that Timber which, he strove to Rend.
Audacious Mortals, and be Timely Wise!
'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,
Wedgd in that Timber which, he strove to Rend.
Each Poet, with a different Talent writes,
One Praises, One Instructs, Another Bites.
Horace did ne're aspire to Epick Bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyrick Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the Ruling Passion of your Mind;
Then, seek a Poet who your way do's bend,
And chuse an Author as you chuse a Friend.
United by this Sympathetick Bond,
You grow Familiar, Intimate and Fond;
Your thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your Souls agree,
No Longer his Interpreter, but He.
One Praises, One Instructs, Another Bites.
7
Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyrick Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the Ruling Passion of your Mind;
Then, seek a Poet who your way do's bend,
And chuse an Author as you chuse a Friend.
United by this Sympathetick Bond,
You grow Familiar, Intimate and Fond;
Your thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your Souls agree,
No Longer his Interpreter, but He.
With how much ease is a young Muse Betray'd,
How nice the Reputation of the Maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chast Instruction of her Tender Years.
The first Impression in her Infant Breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best
Let no Austerity breed servile Fear,
No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-Ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's affected state,
And specious Flattery's more pernicious Bait,
Habitual Innocence adorns her Thoughts
But your neglect must answer for her Faults
How nice the Reputation of the Maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chast Instruction of her Tender Years.
The first Impression in her Infant Breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best
8
No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-Ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's affected state,
And specious Flattery's more pernicious Bait,
Habitual Innocence adorns her Thoughts
But your neglect must answer for her Faults
Immodest words admit of'no defence;
For want of Decency, is want of Sense.
What mod'rate Fop would rake the Park, or Stews,
Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may chuse?
Variety of such is to be found;
Take then a Subject, proper to expound:
But Moral, Great, and worth a Poet's Voice,
For Men of sense despise a trivial Choice:
And such Applause it must expect to meet,
As wou'd some Painter, busie in a Street,
To Copy Bulls and Bears, and ev'ry Sign
That calls the staring Sots to nasty Wine
For want of Decency, is want of Sense.
What mod'rate Fop would rake the Park, or Stews,
Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may chuse?
Variety of such is to be found;
Take then a Subject, proper to expound:
But Moral, Great, and worth a Poet's Voice,
For Men of sense despise a trivial Choice:
And such Applause it must expect to meet,
As wou'd some Painter, busie in a Street,
9
That calls the staring Sots to nasty Wine
Yet 'tis not all to have a Subject Good,
It must Delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsome Objects to my view,
(As many Old have done, and many New)
With nauseous Images my Fancy fills,
And all, goes down like Oxymel of Squils.
Instruct the list'ning world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects, and of lofty Things.
These will such true, such bright Idea's raise,
As merit Gratitude, as well as Praise,
But foul Descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being Like, or being Ill.
For who, without a Qualm, hath ever lookt,
On Holy Garbage, tho by Homer Cookt?
Whose Rayling Hero's, and whose wounded Gods,
Make some suspect, He Snores, as well as Nods.
But I offend—Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with Indignation down;
My blushing Muse with Conscious fear retires,
And whom They like, Implicitely Admires.
It must Delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsome Objects to my view,
(As many Old have done, and many New)
With nauseous Images my Fancy fills,
And all, goes down like Oxymel of Squils.
Instruct the list'ning world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects, and of lofty Things.
These will such true, such bright Idea's raise,
As merit Gratitude, as well as Praise,
But foul Descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being Like, or being Ill.
For who, without a Qualm, hath ever lookt,
On Holy Garbage, tho by Homer Cookt?
10
Make some suspect, He Snores, as well as Nods.
But I offend—Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with Indignation down;
My blushing Muse with Conscious fear retires,
And whom They like, Implicitely Admires.
On sure Foundations let your Fabrick Rise,
And with attractive Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meritricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symetry of Parts.
Which through the Whole, insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to animate the Mass.
A pure, an Active, an Auspicious flame,
And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Blessing came;
But few, oh few, Souls, præordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd Height.
No Rebel-Titan's sacrilegious Crime,
By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.
The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd
Æneas entrance, till he knew his Guid;
How justly then will impious Mortals fall,
Whose Pride would soar to Heav'n without a Call?
And with attractive Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meritricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symetry of Parts.
Which through the Whole, insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to animate the Mass.
A pure, an Active, an Auspicious flame,
And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Blessing came;
But few, oh few, Souls, præordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd Height.
11
By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.
The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd
Æneas entrance, till he knew his Guid;
How justly then will impious Mortals fall,
Whose Pride would soar to Heav'n without a Call?
Pride (of all others the most dangerous Fau't,)
Proceeds from vant of Sense or want of Thought,
The Men, who labour and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond, than boast.
For if your Author be profoundly good,
Twill cost you dear before he's understood.
How many Ages since has Virgil writ?
How few are they who understand him yet?
Approach his Altars with religious Fear,
No vulgar Deity inhabits there:
Heav'n shakes not more at Jove's imperial Nod,
Then Poets shou'd before their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty MARO! may that Sacred Name,
Kindle my Breast with thy cælestial Flame;
Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse.
The Muse instruct my Voice, and Thou inspire the Muse!
Proceeds from vant of Sense or want of Thought,
The Men, who labour and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond, than boast.
For if your Author be profoundly good,
Twill cost you dear before he's understood.
How many Ages since has Virgil writ?
How few are they who understand him yet?
Approach his Altars with religious Fear,
No vulgar Deity inhabits there:
12
Then Poets shou'd before their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty MARO! may that Sacred Name,
Kindle my Breast with thy cælestial Flame;
Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse.
The Muse instruct my Voice, and Thou inspire the Muse!
What I have instanc'd only in the best,
Is, in proportion true of All the rest.
Take pains the genuine Meaning to explore,
There Sweat, there Strain, tug the laborious Oar:
Search ev'ry Comment, that your Care can find,
Some here, some there, may hit the Poets Mind;
Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng;
The Multitude is alwayes in the Wrong.
When Things appear unnatural or hard,
Consult your Author, with Himself compar'd;
Who knows what blessing Phæbus may bestow,
And future Ages to your Labour owe?
Such Secrets are not easily found out,
But once Discover'd, leave no Room for Doubt.
Truth Stamps Conviction in your Ravisht Breast,
And Peace, and Joy attend the glorious Guest.
Is, in proportion true of All the rest.
Take pains the genuine Meaning to explore,
There Sweat, there Strain, tug the laborious Oar:
Search ev'ry Comment, that your Care can find,
Some here, some there, may hit the Poets Mind;
Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng;
The Multitude is alwayes in the Wrong.
When Things appear unnatural or hard,
Consult your Author, with Himself compar'd;
13
And future Ages to your Labour owe?
Such Secrets are not easily found out,
But once Discover'd, leave no Room for Doubt.
Truth Stamps Conviction in your Ravisht Breast,
And Peace, and Joy attend the glorious Guest.
Truth still is One; Truth is Divinely bright,
No cloudy Doubts obscure her Native light,
While in your Thoughts you find the least debate,
You may Confound, but never can Translate.
Your Stile will this through all Disguises show,
For none, explain, more clearly than they Know.
He only proves he Understands a Text,
Whose Exposition leaves it unperplex'd.
They, who too faithfully on Names insist,
Rather Create than Dissipate the Mist.
And grow Unjust by being over nice,
(For Superstitious Virtue turns to Vice.)
Let Crassus's Ghost, and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their Legions fell.
Since Rome hath been so Jealous of her Fame,
That few know Pacorus or Monæses Name.
No cloudy Doubts obscure her Native light,
While in your Thoughts you find the least debate,
You may Confound, but never can Translate.
Your Stile will this through all Disguises show,
For none, explain, more clearly than they Know.
He only proves he Understands a Text,
Whose Exposition leaves it unperplex'd.
14
Rather Create than Dissipate the Mist.
And grow Unjust by being over nice,
(For Superstitious Virtue turns to Vice.)
Let Crassus's Ghost, and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their Legions fell.
Since Rome hath been so Jealous of her Fame,
That few know Pacorus or Monæses Name.
Words in One Language Elegantly us'd,
Will hardly in another be excus'd.
And some that Rome admir'd in Cæsars Time,
May neither suit Our Genius nor our Clime.
The Genuine Sence, intelligibly Told,
Shews a Translator both Discreet, and Bold.
Will hardly in another be excus'd.
And some that Rome admir'd in Cæsars Time,
May neither suit Our Genius nor our Clime.
The Genuine Sence, intelligibly Told,
Shews a Translator both Discreet, and Bold.
Excursions are inexpiably Bad.
And 'tis much safer to leave out than Add,
Abstruse and Mystick thoughts you must express,
With painful Care but seeming easiness,
For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress.
Th'Ænæan Muse when she appears in state,
Makes all Joves Thunder on her Verses wait,
Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things
As Venus speaks or Philomela sings.
Your Author alwayes will the best advise,
Fall when He falls, and when He Rises, Rise.
Affected Noise it the most wretched Thing,
That to Contempt can Empty Scriblers bring.
Vowels and Accents, Regularly plac'd
On even Syllables (and still the Last)
Tho gross innumerable Faults abound,
In spight of non sense never fail of Sound.
But this is meant of even Verse alone
As being most harmonious and most known,
For if you will unequal numbers try,
There accents on odd Syllables must lie.
Whatever Sister of the learned Nine
Do's to your Suit a willing Ear incline,
Urge your success, deserve a lasting Name,
She'l Crown a Grateful and a Constant Flame.
But if a wild Uncertainty prevail,
And turn your Veering heart with ev'ry Gale,
You lose the Fruit of all your former care,
For the sad Prospect of a Just Despair.
And 'tis much safer to leave out than Add,
15
With painful Care but seeming easiness,
For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress.
Th'Ænæan Muse when she appears in state,
Makes all Joves Thunder on her Verses wait,
Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things
As Venus speaks or Philomela sings.
Your Author alwayes will the best advise,
Fall when He falls, and when He Rises, Rise.
Affected Noise it the most wretched Thing,
That to Contempt can Empty Scriblers bring.
Vowels and Accents, Regularly plac'd
On even Syllables (and still the Last)
Tho gross innumerable Faults abound,
In spight of non sense never fail of Sound.
But this is meant of even Verse alone
As being most harmonious and most known,
16
There accents on odd Syllables must lie.
Whatever Sister of the learned Nine
Do's to your Suit a willing Ear incline,
Urge your success, deserve a lasting Name,
She'l Crown a Grateful and a Constant Flame.
But if a wild Uncertainty prevail,
And turn your Veering heart with ev'ry Gale,
You lose the Fruit of all your former care,
For the sad Prospect of a Just Despair.
A Quack (too scandalously mean to Name)
Had, by Man-Midwifry, got Wealth, and Fame;
As if Lucina had forgot her Trade,
The Lab'ring Wife invok's his surer Aid.
Well-season'd Bowls the Gossips Spirits raise,
Who while she Guzzles, Chats the Doctor's Praise.
And largely, what she wants in Words, supplies,
With Maudlin-Eloquence of trickling Eyes.
But what a thoughtless Animal is Man,
(How very Active in his own Trepan!)
For greedy of Physicians frequent Fees,
From Female Mellow Praise He takes Degrees?
Struts in a new Unlicens'd Gown, and then,
From saving Womenfalls to Killing Men.
Another Such had left the Nation Thin,
In spight of all the Children he brought in.
His Pills, as thick as Hand Granadoes flew,
And where they Fell, as Certainly, they slew.
His Name struck ev'ry where as great a Damp
As Archimedes through the Roman Camp.
With this, the Doctors Pride began to Cool,
For Smarting soundly may convince a Fool.
But now Repentance came too late, for Grace;
And meager Famine star'd him in the Face.
Fain would he to the Wives be reconcil'd,
But found no Husband left to own a Child.
The Friends, that got the Brats, were poyson'd too;
In this sad case what could our Vermin do?
Worry'd with Debts and past all Hope of Bail,
Th'unpity'd wretch lies Roting in a Jail.
And There with Basket-Alms, scarce kept Alive,
Shews how Mistaken Talents ought to Thrive.
Had, by Man-Midwifry, got Wealth, and Fame;
As if Lucina had forgot her Trade,
The Lab'ring Wife invok's his surer Aid.
Well-season'd Bowls the Gossips Spirits raise,
Who while she Guzzles, Chats the Doctor's Praise.
17
With Maudlin-Eloquence of trickling Eyes.
But what a thoughtless Animal is Man,
(How very Active in his own Trepan!)
For greedy of Physicians frequent Fees,
From Female Mellow Praise He takes Degrees?
Struts in a new Unlicens'd Gown, and then,
From saving Womenfalls to Killing Men.
Another Such had left the Nation Thin,
In spight of all the Children he brought in.
His Pills, as thick as Hand Granadoes flew,
And where they Fell, as Certainly, they slew.
His Name struck ev'ry where as great a Damp
As Archimedes through the Roman Camp.
With this, the Doctors Pride began to Cool,
For Smarting soundly may convince a Fool.
But now Repentance came too late, for Grace;
And meager Famine star'd him in the Face.
18
But found no Husband left to own a Child.
The Friends, that got the Brats, were poyson'd too;
In this sad case what could our Vermin do?
Worry'd with Debts and past all Hope of Bail,
Th'unpity'd wretch lies Roting in a Jail.
And There with Basket-Alms, scarce kept Alive,
Shews how Mistaken Talents ought to Thrive.
I pity, from my Soul, Unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to Prostitute their Pen;
Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve or Plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where Guynny's Lead;
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your Country owe your Swords and Cares.
Let no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse.
'Tis very Dangerous, Tampring with a Muse.
The Profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For, tho true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place,
Degenerate lines degrade th'attainted Race,
No Poet any Passion can Excite;
But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan Cave.
And heard th'Impatient Maid Divinely Rave?
I hear her now; I see her Rowling Eyes;
And panting; Lo! the God, the God she cries;
With words, not Hers, and more then humane sound,
She makes th'obedient Ghosts peep trembling thro the ground,
But tho we must obey when heaven Commands,
And man in vain the Sacred Call withstands,
Beware what Spirit rages in your breast.
For ten inspir'd ten thousand are Possest.
Thus make the proper use of each Extream,
And write with fury but correct with Phleam.
As when the Chearful hours too freely Pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting Glass,
Your Pulse advises, and Begins to beat
Through Every swelling Vein a loud retreat.
So when a Muse Propitiously invites
Improve her favours, and Indulge her flights,
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the Radiant Sun, a Glimmering Lamp;
Adult'rate Metals to the Sterling Stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere humane Lines,
Compar'd with those whose Inspiration shines;
These, Nervous, bold; those Languid, and remiss;
There, cold salutes, But here, a Lovers kiss.
Thus have I seen a Rapid, headlong Tide,
With foaming Waves the Passive Soan Divide
Whose Lazy Waters without Motion lay,
While he, with eager force, urg'd his Impetuous way.
Compell'd by want to Prostitute their Pen;
Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve or Plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where Guynny's Lead;
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your Country owe your Swords and Cares.
Let no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse.
19
The Profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For, tho true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place,
Degenerate lines degrade th'attainted Race,
No Poet any Passion can Excite;
But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan Cave.
And heard th'Impatient Maid Divinely Rave?
I hear her now; I see her Rowling Eyes;
And panting; Lo! the God, the God she cries;
With words, not Hers, and more then humane sound,
She makes th'obedient Ghosts peep trembling thro the ground,
But tho we must obey when heaven Commands,
And man in vain the Sacred Call withstands,
Beware what Spirit rages in your breast.
For ten inspir'd ten thousand are Possest.
Thus make the proper use of each Extream,
And write with fury but correct with Phleam.
20
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting Glass,
Your Pulse advises, and Begins to beat
Through Every swelling Vein a loud retreat.
So when a Muse Propitiously invites
Improve her favours, and Indulge her flights,
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the Radiant Sun, a Glimmering Lamp;
Adult'rate Metals to the Sterling Stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere humane Lines,
Compar'd with those whose Inspiration shines;
These, Nervous, bold; those Languid, and remiss;
There, cold salutes, But here, a Lovers kiss.
Thus have I seen a Rapid, headlong Tide,
With foaming Waves the Passive Soan Divide
Whose Lazy Waters without Motion lay,
While he, with eager force, urg'd his Impetuous way.
21
The Priviledge that Ancient Poets claim
Now turn'd to License by too just a Name,
Belongs to none but an Establisht Fame,
Which scorns to Take it ------
Absur'd Expressions, crude, Abortive Thoughts,
All the lewd Legion of Exploded fau'ts,
Base Fugitives to that Asylum fly,
And sacred Laws with Insolence Defy.
Not thus our Heroes of the former Days,
Deserv'd and Gain'd their never fading Bayes;
For I mistake, or far the greatest Part,
Of what some call Neglect was study'd Art.
When Virgil seems to Trifle in a Line,
'Tis like a Warning-piece, which gives the Sign
To Wake your Fancy, and prepare your Sight,
To reach the noble Height of some unusual Flight.
I lose my Patience, when, with Sawcy Pride,
By untun'd Ears I hear His Numbers try'd.
Reverse of Nature! shall such Copies, then
Arraign th'Originals of Maro's Pen!
And the rude Notions of Pedantick Schools
Blaspheme the sacred Founder of Our Rules!
Now turn'd to License by too just a Name,
Belongs to none but an Establisht Fame,
Which scorns to Take it ------
Absur'd Expressions, crude, Abortive Thoughts,
All the lewd Legion of Exploded fau'ts,
Base Fugitives to that Asylum fly,
And sacred Laws with Insolence Defy.
Not thus our Heroes of the former Days,
Deserv'd and Gain'd their never fading Bayes;
For I mistake, or far the greatest Part,
Of what some call Neglect was study'd Art.
When Virgil seems to Trifle in a Line,
'Tis like a Warning-piece, which gives the Sign
To Wake your Fancy, and prepare your Sight,
To reach the noble Height of some unusual Flight.
22
By untun'd Ears I hear His Numbers try'd.
Reverse of Nature! shall such Copies, then
Arraign th'Originals of Maro's Pen!
And the rude Notions of Pedantick Schools
Blaspheme the sacred Founder of Our Rules!
The Delicacy of the nicest Ear
Finds nothing harsh, or out of Order There.
Sublime or Low, unbended or Intense,
The sound is still a Comment to the Sense.
Finds nothing harsh, or out of Order There.
Sublime or Low, unbended or Intense,
The sound is still a Comment to the Sense.
A skilful Ear, in Numbers shou'd preside,
And all Disputes without Appeal decide.
This ancient Rome, and Elder Athens found,
Before mistaken stops debauch'd the sound.
And all Disputes without Appeal decide.
This ancient Rome, and Elder Athens found,
Before mistaken stops debauch'd the sound.
When, by Impulse from Heaven, Tyrtæus Sung,
In drooping Souldiers a new Courage sprung
Reviving Sparta now the fight mantain'd,
And what Two Gen'rals Lost, a Poet Gain'd.
By secret influence of Indulgent Skyes,
Empire, and Poesy Together rise.
True Poets are the Guardians of a State,
And when They Fail, portend approaching Fate.
For that which Rome to Conquest did Inspire,
Was not the Vestal, but the Muses fire;
Heaven joyns the Blessings, no declining Age,
E're felt the Raptures of Poetick Rage.
In drooping Souldiers a new Courage sprung
23
And what Two Gen'rals Lost, a Poet Gain'd.
By secret influence of Indulgent Skyes,
Empire, and Poesy Together rise.
True Poets are the Guardians of a State,
And when They Fail, portend approaching Fate.
For that which Rome to Conquest did Inspire,
Was not the Vestal, but the Muses fire;
Heaven joyns the Blessings, no declining Age,
E're felt the Raptures of Poetick Rage.
Of many faults, Rhyme is (perhaps) the Cause,
Too strict to Rhyme We slight more useful Laws.
For That, in Greece or Rome, was never known,
'Till by Barbarian Deluges o'reflown,
Subdu'd, Undone, They did at Last, Obey,
And change their Own for their Invaders way.
Too strict to Rhyme We slight more useful Laws.
For That, in Greece or Rome, was never known,
'Till by Barbarian Deluges o'reflown,
Subdu'd, Undone, They did at Last, Obey,
And change their Own for their Invaders way.
24
I grant that from some Mossie, Idol Oak
In Double Rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke;
And by Succession of unlearned Times,
As Bards began, so Monks Rung on the Chimes.
In Double Rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke;
And by Succession of unlearned Times,
As Bards began, so Monks Rung on the Chimes.
But now that Phœbus and the sacred Nine,
With all their Beams on our blest Island shine,
Why should not We their ancient Rites restore
And be, what Rome or Athens were Before?
With all their Beams on our blest Island shine,
Why should not We their ancient Rites restore
And be, what Rome or Athens were Before?
Have we forgot how Raphaels Num'rous Prose
Led our exalted Souls through heavenly Camps,
And mark'd the ground where proud Apostate Thrones,
Defy'd Jehovah! Here, 'twixt Host and Host,
(A narrow but a dreadful Interval)
Portentous sight! before the Cloudy van,
Satan with vast and haughty Strides advanc'd,
Came tow'ring arm'd in Adamant and Gold.
There Bellowing Engines, with their fiery Tubes,
Dispers'd Æthereal forms, and down they fell
By thousands, Angels on Arch-Angels rowl'd;
Recover'd, to the hills they ran, they flew,
Which, (with their pond'rous load, Rocks, Waters, Woods)
From their firm Seats torn by the shaggy Tops
They bore like shields before them through the Air,
Till more incens'd they hurl'd them at their Foes,
All was Confusion, Heavens Foundations shook,
Threatning no less than Universal Wrack,
For Michaels arm main Promontories flung,
And over prest whole Legions weak with Sin;
Yet they Blasphem'd and struggled as they lay
Till the great Ensign of Messiah blaz'd,
And (arm'd with vengeance) Gods Victorious Son
(Effulgence of Paternal Deity)
Grasping ten thousand Thunders in his hand
Drove th'old Original Rebels headlong down
And sent them flameing to the vast Abysse.
O may I live to hail the Glorious day,
And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way,
When in Triumphant State the British Muse,
True to her self, shall barb'rous aid Refuse,
And in the Roman Majesty appear,
VVhich none know better, and none come so near.
Led our exalted Souls through heavenly Camps,
And mark'd the ground where proud Apostate Thrones,
Defy'd Jehovah! Here, 'twixt Host and Host,
(A narrow but a dreadful Interval)
Portentous sight! before the Cloudy van,
Satan with vast and haughty Strides advanc'd,
Came tow'ring arm'd in Adamant and Gold.
25
Dispers'd Æthereal forms, and down they fell
By thousands, Angels on Arch-Angels rowl'd;
Recover'd, to the hills they ran, they flew,
Which, (with their pond'rous load, Rocks, Waters, Woods)
From their firm Seats torn by the shaggy Tops
They bore like shields before them through the Air,
Till more incens'd they hurl'd them at their Foes,
All was Confusion, Heavens Foundations shook,
Threatning no less than Universal Wrack,
For Michaels arm main Promontories flung,
And over prest whole Legions weak with Sin;
Yet they Blasphem'd and struggled as they lay
Till the great Ensign of Messiah blaz'd,
And (arm'd with vengeance) Gods Victorious Son
(Effulgence of Paternal Deity)
Grasping ten thousand Thunders in his hand
Drove th'old Original Rebels headlong down
And sent them flameing to the vast Abysse.
26
And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way,
When in Triumphant State the British Muse,
True to her self, shall barb'rous aid Refuse,
And in the Roman Majesty appear,
VVhich none know better, and none come so near.
FINIS.
| An Essay on Translated Verse | |