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Published by P. Woran Old Bridge Dublin

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Τ Η Ε

ENGLISH PO E T S.

THE

POEMS OF JOHN DRY DE N.

OF

THE

ANCIENT POETS.

jIf then a blind, well-meaning, Indian stray, ON DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI. Shall the great gulph be Mhew'd him for the way?

For better ends our kind Rezeemer dy'de
BY THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

Or the faln angels room will be but ill supply'd.

That Christ, who at the creat deciding day, E gone, you you go,

(For he declares what he resolves to say) Let free, impartial mer, from Dryden learn

And save the Meep for actions, not for thoughts, Mysterious secrets, of a high concern,

Hath too much mercy to send men to hell, And weighty truths, folid convincing sense,

For humble charity, and hoping well. Explain'd by uraffected eloquence.

To what stupidity are zealots grown, What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill?

Whose inhumanity profusely Town He chat hath none, and lives as angels do,

I'll err at least on the securer fide,
Must be an angel, but what's that to you?

A convert free from malice and from pride.
While mighty Lewis finds the poze too great,
And dreads the yoke of his imposing seat,
Our lects a more tyrannic power assume,
And would for scorpiors change the rods of Rome;

TO MY FRIEND, MR. JOHN DRYDEN,
That church detain'd the legacy divire;
Fanatics cast the pearls of heaven to swine:

ON HIS SEVERAL EXCELLENT TRANSLATIONS What then have thinking honest men to do, But chufe a mear between th' ufurping two? Nor can th' Ægyptian patriarch blame thy muse, BY G. GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNL. Which for his firmness does his heat excuse; Whatever councils have approv'd his creed,

S flowers transplanted from a southern sky, The preface sure was his own act and deed. Our church will have that preface read, you'll say: Milling their native sun, at best retain 'Tis true: but so the will th’ Apocrypha; But a faint odour, and survive with pain : And such as can believe them, freely may. Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,

But did that God (so little understood) Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote, Whofe darling attribute is being good,

Is a dead, image, and a senseless dravght. -
From the dark womb of the rude chaos bring While vie transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Such various creatures and make man their king, Escapes unfeen, evaporates, and dies.
Yet leave his favourite man, his chiesest care, Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
More wretched than the vileft infects are? Müft imitate with Roman force and fire,
Or how much happier and more safe are they?. In elegance of style and phrase te fame,
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey And in the sparklirg genius, and the flame.
To yelling furies, and for ever burn

Whence we conclude from thy tran Nated song, In that sad place from whence is no retum, So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong, For unbelief in one they never knew,

Cæleftial poet! foul of harmony ! Or for not doing what they could not do! That every genius was reviv'd in thee. The very fiends know for what crime they fell, Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to light, And so do all their followers that rebel :

Never to die, and take to heave their fight; VOL. III.

B

A din

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