To my honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent Poems.

A

S there is music uninform'd by art

In thofe wild notes, which with a merry heart
The birds in unfrequented fhades exprefs,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us lefs:
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which fhames compofure, and its art excells.
Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charmis unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmnefs does fuppofe them deep;
Such is your Muse: No metaphor fwell'd high,
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight fhould bear,

And yet no fign of toil, no fweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as Stoics feign

Then leaft to feel, when moft they fuffer pain;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden fprings within the engine be:
Or 'tis fome happiness that still purfues
Each act and motion of your graceful Mufe.
Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,

*Rete mirabile.

Lets thro' its meshes ev'ry meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms cafually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world.
Nor dare I fuch a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,

Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel thofe heav'ns and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our inftruction make their fecond end;
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that wone
At once a beauty and a fortune too.

Of moral knowledge Poefy was queen,

And still fhe might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.
Like fome brave captain, your fuccessful pen
Reftores the exil'd to her crown again;
And give us hope, that having feen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
"A fober prince's government is best."
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' improvement of the richest ground,
That foil which thofe immortal laurels bore,
That once the facred Maro's temples wore.

Elifa's griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had the fo fpoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had faid.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has discharg'd thofe,
Elifa's fhade may now its wand'ring cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no lefs

Your kindness great Achilles doth confefs;
Who, drefs'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view
Then we shall fee his work was lamely rough,
Each figure ftiff, as if defign'd in buff:
His colours laid fo thick on ev'ry place,
As only fhew'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties fee,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our fight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar difhes are, by cooks difguis'd,

More for their dreffing, than their fubstance priz'd,
Your curious * notes fo fearch into that age,
When all was fable but the facred page,

That, since in that dark night we needs must stray;
We are at least mis-led in pleasant way.

But what we most admire, your verse no less

The prophet than the poet doth confefs.
Ere our weak eyes difcern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you faw great Charles his morning break.
So fkillful feamen ken the land from far,
Which fhews like mifts to the dull paffenger.
To Charles your Mufe firft pays her duteous love,
As still the ancients did begin from Jove.
With Monk you end, whofe name preferv'd shall be,
As Rome recorded + Rufus' memory,

Who thought it greater honour to obey

His country's int'reft, than the world to fway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen :

Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture in your right to prophefy.

'This work, by merit first of fame secure,

"Is likewife happy in its geniture:

"For, fince 'tis born when Charles afcends the throne, "It fhares, at once, his fortune and its own."

To the Earl of RosCOMMON, on his excellent Effay on Tranflated Verfe.

W

Hether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore, The feeds of arts and infant-fcience bore, 'Tis fure the noble plant, tranflated first, Advanc'd its head in Grecian gardens nurst. The Grecians added verfe; their tuneful tongue

t "Hic fitus eft Rufus, qui, pulfo vindice, quondam “Imperium afferuit non sibi, sed patriac.”

Made Nature first, and Nature's God their fong.
Nor stopt tranflation here: For conqu❜ring Rome,
With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;
Enrich'd by thofe Athenian Muses more,

Than all the vanquish'd world could yield before.
'Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times,
Debas'd the majefty of verfe to rhimes;
Thofe rude at firft: A kind of hobbling profe,
That limp'd along, and tinkled in the clofe.
But Italy' reviving from the trance

Of Vandale, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowel'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,

Made rhime an art, and Dante's polish'd page
Reftor'd a filver, not a golden age.

Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we fee,
What rhime improv'd in all its height can be:
At beft a pleasing found, and fair barbarity.
The French purfu'd their steps; and Britain, last,
In manly sweetness all the rest surpass'd.
'The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,
Appear exalted in the British loom :

The Mufes empire is reftor'd again,

In Charles his reign, and by Rofcommon's pen.
Yet modeftly he does his work furvey,

And calls a finish'd poem an ESSAY.

For all the needful rules are fcatter'd here;
Truth fmoothly told, and pleasantly severe ;
So well is art difguis'd, for nature to appear.
Nor need thofe rules to give translation light:
His own example is a flame fo bright;

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