« ПредишнаНапред »
Such praise is yours,
the passions move, That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love, Where nature triumphs over wretched art ; We only warm the head, but you the heart. . Always you warm ; and if the rising year, As in hot regions, brings the sun too near, 'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow, Which in our cooler climates will not
grow. They only think you
Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse į The too much vigor of your youthful muse.
That humble style which they your virtue make,
your power ; you need but stoop and take.
Hether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,
The seeds of arts and infant science bore, Tis sure the noble plant, translated first, Advanc'd its head in Grecian gardens nurst. The Grecians added verse: their tuneful tongue Made nature first, and nature's God their song. Nor stopt translation here: for conqu’ring Rome, With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers
home; Enrich'd by those Athenian muses more, Than all the vanquilh'd world could yield before. "Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times, Debas'd the majesty of verse to rhimes ; Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling prose, That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close. But Italy, reviving from.the trance Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words,
How much in him may rising Ireland boast,
Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand: Roscommon writes ; to that auspicious hand, Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow.sand. Roscommon, whom both court and camps com
mend, True to his prince, and faithful to his friend; Roscommon first in fields of honor known, First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; Who both Minervas justly makes his own. Now let the few belov'd by Jove, and they Whom infus’d Titan form’d of better clay, On equal terms with ancient wit engage, Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page: Our English palace opens wide in state ; And without stooping they may pass the gate.
* * *