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Nor need those rules to give translation light:
His own example is a flame so bright;
That he who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain,
Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising Ireland boast,
How much in gaining him has Britain loft !
Their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd;
The more instructed we, the more we still are

Khámod.
'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow,
Deriv'd from British channels long ago,
That here his conqu’ring ancestors were nurst;
And Ireland but translated England first:
By this reprisal we regain our right,
Elfe must the two contending nations fight ; 50
A nobler quarrel for his native earth,
Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth,
To what perfection will our tongue arrive,
How will invention and translation thrive,
When authors nobly born will bear their part, 55
And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!
Great generals thus, descending from com.

mand, With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand. How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleas’d to hear His fame augmented by an English peer; 69

SOL. II.

P

65

How he embellishes bis Helen's loves,
Qutdoes his softness, and his sense improves ?
When these translate, and teach translators too,
Nor, firstling kid, nor any vulgar yow,
Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand:
Roscommon writes : to that auspicious hand,
Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow

fand. Roscommon, whom both court and camps com

mend, True to his prince, and faithful to his friend; Roscommon, first in fields of honour known,70) 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, nos sacred Virgil's

page : Our English palace opens wide in flate ; And without stooping they may pass the gate.

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Ver. 67. Mufe, feed the bull}
Jam cornu petat, et pedibus qui fpargat arenam.

John WARTON.
Ver. 74. Whom infus'd Titan]
E meliore lutu finxit præcordia Titan. Juv.

JOHN WARTON.

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

TO THE

DUTCHESS OF YORK*,

ON HER

RETURN FROM SCOTLAND IN THE YEAR 1682.

WHEN fa&tious rage to cruel exile drove
The

queen of beauty, and the court of love, The Muses droop’d, with their forsaken arts, And the fad Cupids broke their useless darts : Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turn'd, 5 Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it

mourn'd. Love was no more, when loyalty was gone, The great supporter of his awful throne.

* On the twenty-first of November 1673, the duke of York was married to the princess Mary d’Efte, then about fifteen years of age, and extremely handsome. The ceremony was performed at Dover by the bishop of Oxford. It was against the rules of policy for him at that time to wed a Roman Catho. lic; and the Parliament addressed against it.

DERRICK, ? ?

11

Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the fun and he had lost their

way.
But now the illustrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, though they rais'd no

storm, Foreslow'd her passage, to behold her form : 15 Some cry'd, A Venus; some, A Thetis paft ; But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste. Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and

Pride ; And Envy did but look on her, and dy'd. Whate'er we suffer'd from our fullen fate, Her fight is purchas'd at an easy rate. Three gloomy years against this day were fet; But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt : Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine paft, the plenty still to come. For her the weeping heavens becorne serene; For her the ground is clad in cheerful green: For her the nightingales are taught to sing, And Nature has for her delay'd the spring. The Mufe resumes her long-forgotten lays, 30 And Love restor’d his ancient realm surveys, Recals our beauties, and revives our plays ; His waste dominions peoples once again, And from her presence dates his second reign:

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But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
Dispensing what she never will admit:
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Diftemper’d Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more shall vex the church, and tear the

ftate:
No more shall Faction civil difcords move,
Or only discords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring, 45
Who best shall love the duke, and serve the

king.

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