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. |
 | An Essay on Translated Verse |  |
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.
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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.
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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
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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,
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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?
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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.
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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:
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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.
| An Essay on Translated Verse | |