EXCELLENT TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.
'HENE'ER great Virgil's lofty verse I see,
The pompous fcene charms my admiring eye:
There different beauties in perfection meet;
The thoughts as proper, as the numbers fweet:
And when wild Fancy mounts a daring height,
Judgment steps in, and moderates her flight.
Wifely he manages his wealthy store,
Still fays enough, and yet implies still more:
For though the weighty fenfe be closely wrought,
The reader's left t'improve the pleasing thought.
Hence we despair to fee an English dress
Should e'er his nervous energy express;
For who could that in fetter'd rhyme inclose,
Which without lofs can fcarce be told in profe!
But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise;
And make your copy fhare an equal praise.
Oh how I fee thee in foft fcenes of love,
Renew thofe paffions he alone could move!
Here Cupid's charms are with new art expreft,
And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest :
Leaves her Elyfium, as if glad to live,
To love, and wifh, to figh, defpair, and grieve,
And die again for him that would again deceive.
Nor does the mighty Trojan less appear
Than Mars himself amidft the ftorms of war.
Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow,
And a new dread attends th' impending blow:
The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate,
And, though unwounded, feem to feel their fate.
Long the rude fury of an ignorant age,
With barbarous spite, prophan'd his facred page.
The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil,
Wrefted his fenfe, and cramp'd his vigorous ftyle;
No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare ;
But ftill his fhoulders muft the burden bear.
While through the mazes of their comments led,
We learn not what he writes, but what they read.
Yet, through these shades of undistinguish'd night
Appear'd fome glimmering intervals of light;
Till mangled by a vile tranflating fect,
Like babes by witches in effigy rackt;
Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rose,,
And Holborn doggrel, and low chiming prose,
His ftrength and beauty did at once depofe.
But now the magic spell is at an end,
Since ev'n the dead in you hath found a friend ;
You free the Bard from rude oppreffors' power,
And
grace his verfe with charms unknown before:
He, doubly thus oblig'd, muft doubting stand,
Which chiefly fhould his gratitude command;
Whether should claim the tribute of his heart,
The Patron's bounty, or the Poet's art.
Alike with wonder and delight we view'd
The Roman genius in thy verse renew'd :
We faw thee raife foft Ovid's amorous fire,
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy lyre:
We saw new gall imbitter Juvenal's pen,
And crabbed Perfeus made politely plain :
Virgil alone was thought too great a task;
What you could scarce perform, or we durft afk:
A tafk! which Waller's Mufe could ne'er engage;
A tafk! too hard for Denham's ftronger rage:
Sure of fuccefs they fome flight fallies try'd,
But the fenc'd coaft their bold attempts defy'd.
With fear their o'er-match'd forces back they drew,
Quitted the province Fate referv'd for you.
In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm;
A work his fon was deftin'd to perform.
"O had Rofcommon liv'd to hail the day,
“And fing loud Pæans through the crowded way;
“When you in Roman majesty appear,
"Which none know better, and none come so near:"
The happy author would with wonder fee,
His rules were only prophecies of thee:
And were he now to give tranflators light,
He'd bid them only read thy work, and write.
For this great task our loud applause is due;
We own old favours, but muft prefs for new:
Th' expecting world demands one labour more;
And thy lov'd Homer does thy aid implore,
To right his injur'd works, and fet them free
From the lewd rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
Then shall his verse in grateful pomp appear,
Nor will his birth renew the ancient jar;
On thofe Greek cities we fhall look with fcorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet born.
WE read, how dreams and vifions heretofore
The Prophet and the Poet could infpire;
And make them in unusual rapture foar,
With rage divine, and with poetic fire.
O could I find it now ;---Would Virgil's shade
But for a while vouchfafe to bear the light;
To grace my numbers, and that Muse to aid,
Who fings the Poet that has done him right.
It long has been this facred Author's fate,
To lie at every dull Translator's will;
Long, long his Mufe has groan'd beneath the weight
Of mangling Ogleby's prefumptuous quill.
Dryden, at laft, in his defence arofe;
The father now is righted by the fon :
And while his Mufe endeavours to disclofe
That Poet's beauties, the declares her own.
smooth, pompous numbers drest, each line,
Each thought, betrays fuch a majestic touch;
He could not, had he finish'd his defign,
Have wish'd it better, or have done fo much.
You, like his Hero, though yourself were free;
And disentangled from the war of wit;
You, who fecure might other dangers fee,
And fafe from all malicious cenfures fit.
Yet because facred Virgil's noble Muse,
O'erlay'd by fools, was ready to expire :
To risk your fame again, you boldly chufe,
Or to redeem, or perish with your fire.
Ev'n first and laft, we owe him half to you,
For that his Æneids miss'd their threatned fate,
Was---that his friends by fome prediction knew,
Hereafter, who correcting fhould tranflate.
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