TO MR. DRYDEN, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF 
VIRGIL 
.
I
We read, how dreams and visions heretofore
The prophet and the poet could inspire,
And make them in unusual rapture soar,
With rage divine, and with poetic fire.
II
O could I find it now!—Would Virgil's shade
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the light,
To grace my numbers, and that Muse to aid,
Who sings the poet that has done him right.
III
It long has been this sacred author's fate,
To lie at every dull translators will:
Long, long his Muse has groaned beneath the weight
Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill.
IV
Dryden, at last, in his defence arose:
The father now is righted by the son;
And, while his Muse endeavours to disclose
That poet's beauties, she declares her own.
V
In your smooth pompous numbers drest, each line,
Each thought, betrays such a majestic touch,
He could not, had he finished his design,
Have wished it better, or have done so much.
VI
You, like his hero, though yourself were free,
And disentangled from the war of wit—
You, who secure might others' danger see,
And safe from all malicious censure sit—
VII
Yet, because sacred Virgil's noble Muse,
O'erlaid by fools, was ready to expire,
To risk your fame again, you boldly choose,
Or to redeem, or perish with your sire.
VIII
Even first and last, we owe him half to you:
For, that his Æneids missed their threatened fate,
Was—that his friends by some prediction knew,
Hereafter, who, correcting, should translate.
IX
But hold, my Muse! thy needless flight restrain,
Unless, like him, thou couldst a verse indite:
To think his fancy to describe, is vain,
Since nothing can discover light, but light.
X
'Tis want of genius that does more deny;
'Tis fear my praise should make your glory less;
And, therefore, like the modest painter, I
Must draw the veil, where I cannot express.
Henry Grahme.
