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How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,

And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!

What scenes of death and horror had we view'd,
And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou would'st rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a softer verse;
Thy pen had well describ'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana would have seem'd more fair.

Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,
That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry:

Rules whose deep sense and heav'nly numbers show
The best of critics, and of poets too.

Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains.
But see where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whose tuneful muse affords
The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.
Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears,
If satire or heroic strains she writes,

Her hero pleases, and her satire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dresses, and she charms in all,
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'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.

1

How negligently graceful he unreins

His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains;
How 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 poor present that my muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse

To them that practise them with more success.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,

And so at once, dear friend and muse, farewell.

LETTERA SCRITTA D'ITALIA

AL MOLTO ONORABILE

CARLO CONTE HALIFAX,

Dal Signore GIUSEPPE ADDISON, l'Anno MDCCI. In Versi Inglesi.

E TRADOTTA IN VERSI TOSCANI*.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

MENTRE, Signor, l'ombre villesche attraggonvi,
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 vago clima
Fanno, che vostra quiete in versi io turbi.
Ovunque io giri i miei rapiti lumi,
Scene auree, liete, e chiare visti inalzansi,
Attornianmi poetiche champagne,
Parmi ognor di calcar classico suolo;
Si sovente ivi musa accordo l'arpa,
Che non cantato niun colle sorgevi,
Celebre in versi ivi ogni pianta cresce,
E in celeste armonia ciascun rio corre.
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,

* By the Abbot Anton. Maria Salvini, Greek Professor at Florence.

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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;
Mé 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.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,
VOL. VI.

D

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 acceso 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 immortalati 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
Ovunque dello eroe le divin' opre,
E ove andra fama d'immortal verso.

Oh l'estatico mio petto inspirasse
Musa con un furor simile al vostro!
Infinite bellezze avria 'l mio verso,
Cederia di Virgilio a quel l' Italia.
Mira quali auree selve attorno ridonmi,
Che della tempestosa di Britannia

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