V.

John Verney, Esq. Henry Vernon, Esq. James Vernon, Esq.

W.

Lord Marquis of Winchester Earl of Weymouth Lady Windham Sir John Walter, Bart. Sir John Woodhouse, Bart. Sir Francis Windham James Ward, Esq. Will. Wardour, jun. Esq. Will. Welby, Esq. Will. Weld, Esq. Th. Brome Whorwood, Esq. Salw. Winnington, Esq. Col. Cornelius Wood Mrs Mary Walter Mr Leonard Wessel

RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS EXCELLENT

_TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL_.

Whene'er great Virgil's lofty verse I see, The pompous scene charms my admiring eye. There different beauties in perfection meet; The thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet; And, when wild Fancy mounts a daring height, Judgment steps in, and moderates her flight. Wisely he manages his wealthy store, Still says enough, and yet implies still more: For, though the weighty sense be closely wrought, The reader's left to improve the pleasing thought. Hence we despaired to see an English dress Should e'er his nervous energy express; For who could that in fettered rhyme inclose, Which, without loss, can scarce be told in prose? But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise, And make your copy share an equal praise. Oh! how I see thee, in soft scenes of love, Renew those passions he alone could move! Here Cupid's charms are with new art exprest, And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest-- Leaves her Elysium, as if glad to live, } To love, and wish, to sigh, despair, and grieve, } And die again for him that would again deceive. } Nor does the mighty Trojan less appear Than Mars himself, amidst the storms of war. Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow, And a new dread attends the impending blow: The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate, And, though unwounded, seem to feel their fate. Long the rude fury of an ignorant age, With barbarous spite, profaned his sacred page. The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil, Wrested his sense, and cramped his vigorous style. No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare, But still his shoulders must the burden bear; While, through the mazes of their comments led, We learn, not what he writes, but what they read. Yet, through these shades of undistinguished night, Appeared some glimmering intervals of light; Till mangled by a vile translating sect, Like babes by witches _in effigie_ rackt: Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rose, And Holbourn doggrel, and low chiming prose, His strength and beauty did at once depose. But now the magic spell is at an end, Since even the dead, in you, have found a friend. You free the bard from rude oppressors' power, And grace his verse with charms unknown before. He, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand, Which chiefly should his gratitude command-- Whether should claim the tribute of his heart, The patron's bounty, or the poet's art. Alike with wonder and delight we viewed The Roman genius in thy verse renewed: We saw thee raise soft Ovid's amorous fire, And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre: We saw new gall embitter Juvenal's pen, And crabbed Persius made politely plain. Virgil alone was thought too great a task-- What you could scarce perform, or we durst ask; A task, which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage; A task, too hard for Denham's stronger rage. Sure of success, they some slight sallies tried; But the fenced coast their bold attempts defied: With fear, their o'ermatched forces back they drew, Quitting the province Fate reserved for you. In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm; A work his son was destined to perform. O! had Roscommon[269] lived to hail the day, And sing loud Pæans through the crowded way, When you in Roman majesty appear, Which none know better, and none come so near; The happy author would with wonder see, His rules were only prophecies of thee: And, were he now to give translators light, He'd bid them only read thy work, and write. For this great task, our loud applause is due; We own old favours, but must press for new: Th' expecting world demands one labour more; And thy loved Homer does thy aid implore, To right his injured works, and set them free From the lewd rhymes of grovelling Ogleby. Then shall his verse in graceful pomp appear, Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar: On those Greek cities we shall look with scorn, And in our Britain think the poet born.

TO

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS

_TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL_.

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.

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.

It long has been this sacred author's fate, To lie at every dull translator's will: Long, long his Muse has groaned beneath the weight Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous quill.

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.

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.

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--

Yet, because sacred Virgil's noble Muse, O'erlaid by fools, was ready to expire, To risk your fame again, you boldly chuse, Or to redeem, or perish with your sire.

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.

But hold, my Muse! thy needless flight restrain, Unless, like him, thou could'st a verse indite: To think his fancy to describe, is vain, Since nothing can discover light, but light.