From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
Slie wears all dresses, and she charıns in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourislı'd, should decay with thee;
Did not the muses' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear :
Congreve ! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice still demands one labour more :
The noble Montague remains unnam’d,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorset he directs his artful muse,
In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains ;
Now Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory shines !
We see his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their
streams. But now, to Nassau's secret councils rais'd, He aids the hero whom before he prais'd.
I've done at length; and now, dear Friend, receive The last pour present that my muse can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verse To them that practice them with more success. Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell, And so at once, dear friend and muse, farewell.
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virům! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.
VIRG.
MENTRE, Signor, l'ombre villesche attragonvi,
E di Britannia dagli ufici toltovi
Non piu, ch' a suoi ingrati figli piaccia
Per lor vantaggio, vostro ozio immolate ;
Me in esteri regni il fato invia
Entro genti feconde in carmi eterni,
U la dolce stagion, e'l vaga
climo
Fanno, che vostra quiete in versi io turbi.
Ovunque io giri miei rapiti lumi,
Scene auree, liete, e chiare visti inalzansi,
Attornianmi poetiche champagne,
Parmi ognor di calcar classico suolo ;
Si sovente ivi musa accorda l'arpa,
Che non cantato nium colle sorgevi,
Celebre in versi iyi ogni pianta cresce,
E in celeste armonia ciascun rio corre.
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virûn! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.
VIRG
WHILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.
Come mi giova a cercar poggi, e boschi
Per chiare fonti, e celebrati fiumi,
Alla Nera veder fiera in suo corso
Tracciar Clitumno chiaro in sua sorgente,
Veder condur sua schiera d' acque il Mincio
Per lunghi giri di feconda ripa,
E d'Albula canuta il guado infetto
Suo caldo letto di fumante solfo.
Di mille estasi accesso io sopraveggio
Correre il Po per praterie fiorite
De fiumi re, che sovra i pian scorrendo,
Le torreggianti Alpi in natia muraglia
Della meta di loro umore asciuga :
Superbo, e gonfio dell' hiberne nevi
L'abbondanza comparte ov'egli corre.
Talor smarrito dal drappel sonoro
I rii rimiro imniortalati in canto,
Che giaccionsi in silenzio, e obblio perduti,
(Muti i lor fonti son, secche lor vene,)
Pur, per senno di muse, ei son perenni,
Lor mormorio perenne in tersi carmi.
Talora al gentil Tebro io mi ritiro,
Le vote ripe del gran fiume ammiro,
Che privo di poter suo corso tragge
D'una gretta urna, e sterile sorgente ;
Pur suona ei nelle bocche de poeti,
Sicche 'l miro al Danubio, e al Nil far scorno ;
Cosi musa immortale in alto il leva.
Tal' era il Boyne povero, ignobil fiume,
Che nelle Hiberne valli oscuro errava,
E inosservata in suoi giri scherzava.
Quando per vostri versi, e per le spada
Di Nasso, rinomato, l'onde sue
Levate in alto pel mondo risuonano
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