Æneadas mirata cani, Bellumque, ducefque
Et Paftoris Oves, his vocibus ora refolves.
Quam bene Te poteram patulis amplectior ulnis
Magne Comes, noftræ O fama defenfor & hæres!
Nunc licet infulfi vertant mea fcripta Poeta,
Mollior ac Elegis Ovidî fonet Ilias, aufit
Mævius infelix calamo difperdere Verfus,
Cuncta piat Silenus, & haud imitabile carmen
Prima quod infantis cecinit cunabula mundi
Durabit, famamque per omne tuebitur ævum.
Grandibus ille modis & mirâ pingitur arte:
Per Te, Dulce decus, noftri viget ille laboris
Relliquiæ, multum celebrandus in ore Britanno.
Tu Genio da frana tuo, nec voce beatam
Hac triftere animam----cape dona extrema Tuorum.
Carmina adhuc cineri exequias perfolve Maronis.
Pulchrior in tantâ fplendet mea gloria mufâ.
Plurimus Angligenum manibus verfabere, plebi
Sordebunt excufa ducum fimulacra tabellis;
Te melius vivo pingentem carmine cernent.
Dum tranflatorum fudant ignobile vulgus,
Ut captent oculos Phaleris, & imagine falfâ
Lactent lectorem, & vanâ dulcedine pafcant;
Me mihi reftituis verfu, fenfufque latentes
Eruis, & duplicem reddit tuo charta Maronem.
E Collegio S. S. & Individua Trin, Cant.
S when by labouring Stars new Kingdoms rife
The mighty Mafs in rude confufion lies,
A Court unform'd, diforder'd at the Bar,
And even in Peace the rugged Mein of War,
'Till fome wife States-man into Method draws
The parts, and Animates the frame with Laws;
Such was the cafe when Chaucer's early toil
Founded the Mufes Empire in our Soil.
Spencer improv'd it with his painful hand,
But loft a Noble Mufe in Fairy-land.
Shakespear fay'd all that Nature cou'd impart.
And Johnfon added Industry and Art.
Cowley, and Denham gain'd immortal praise;
And fome who merit, as they wear, the Bays.
Search'd all the Treafuries of Greece, and Rome,
And brought the precious poils in Triumph home.
But ftill our language had some ancient ruft,
Our flights were often high, but feldom juft.
There wanted one who licenfe cou'd restrain,
Make Civil Laws o're Barbarous Ufage reign:
One worthy in Apollo's Chair to fit,
To hold the Scales, and give the Stamp of Wit.
In whom ripe judgment and young fancy meet,
And force the Poets Rage to be difcreet.
Who grows not naufeous whiles he ftrives 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 referv'd for You.
Those Talents all are yours; of which but One,
Were a Fair fortune for a Mufes Son.
Wit, reading, judgment, converfation, art,
A head well ballanc'd, and a generous heart.
While infect Rhymes cloud the polluted Skie,
Created to moleft the world, and die,
Tour File do's polish, what your Fancy caft,
Works are long forming, which must always laft.
Rough iron-fenfe, and ftubborn to the Mould
Touch'd by your Chimic hand is turn'd to Gold:
A fecret Grace fashions the flowing lines,
And infpiration thro' the Labour fhines.
Writers, in fpight of all their Paint and Art,
Betray the darling passion of their Heart.
No Fame you wound, give no chaft ears offence;
Still true to Friendship, Modefty, and Senfe.
So Saints from Heaven for our example fent,
Live to their Rules, having nothing to repent.
Horace, if living, by exchange of fate,
Wou'd give no Laws, but only yours tranflate.
Hoift Sail, bold Writers, fearch, difcover far, You have a Compafs for a Polar-Star.
Tune Orpheus Harp, and with enchanting Rhymes Soften the favage Humour of the Times.
Tell all those untouch'd Wonders which appear'd,
When Fate it felf 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 Virtues known,
The Second Hope and Genius of the Throne.
Heaven in compaffion brought him on our Stage,
To tame the fury of a monstrous Age.
But what bleft voice fhall your Maria fing?
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 fit awful in her Face;
And every gesture form'd by every Grace.
Her Glories are too Heavenly, and refin'd,
For the Grofs fenfes of a Vulgar mind.
It is your part, (you Poets can divine)
To prophecy how fee by Heavens defign
Shall give an Heir to the Great British Line,
Who over all the Western Ifles fhall reign,
Both awe 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 trufts the prefent time to Monarchs care,
Eternity is the Good Writer's fhare.
Earl of Rofcomon, on his Excellent Effay on Tranflated Verse.
Hile Satyr pleas'd, and nothing else was writ, But pure ill nature pafs'd for noblest Wit. Some priviledg'd Climes the poisonous weeds refufe: But when a generous understanding Mufe Does richer fruits from happier foils Tranflate, W'are fent to Ireland, by reverfe of fate. Yet you, I know, with Plato would difdain To write and equal the Maonian ftrain? If 'twould debauch your humour fo far forth, To think fo 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,
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