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By the Earl of Ros COMMON.
E gone, you slaves, you idle vermin go,
Fly from the scourges, and your master know;
Let free, impartial, men from Dryden learn
Mysterious secrets, of a high concern,
And weighty truths, folid convincing fenfe,
Explain’d by unaffected eloquence.
What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill ?
Men still had faults, and men will have them aill;
He that hath none, and lives as angels do,
Must be an angel; but what's that to you ?
While mighty Lewis finds the pope too great, And dreads the yoke of his imposing seat, Our fects a more tyrannic power assume, And would for fcorpions change the rocs of Rome; That church detain'd the legacy divine; Fanatics cast the pearls of heaven to swine : What then have thinking honest men to do, But chufe a incan between th' ufurping two ? Vol. I,
Nor can th' Ægyptian patriarch blame thy muse,
Which for his firmness does his heat excuse ;
Whatever councils have approv'd his creed,
The preface sure was his own act and deed.
Our church will have that preface read, you'll say :
'Tis true : but so she will th’ Apocrypha ;
And such as can believe them, freely may.
But did that God (so little understood)
Whose darling attribute is being good,
From the dark womb of the rude chaos bring
Such various creatures and make man their king,
Yet leave his favourite man, his chiefest care,
More wretched than the vileft insects are ?
O! how much happier and more safe are they?
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey
To yelling furies, and for ever burn
In that sad place from whence is no return,
For unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they could not do !
The very fiends know for what crime they fell,
And so do all their followers that rebel :
If then a blind, well-meaning, Indian stray,
Shall the great gulph be Thew'd him for the way?
For better ends our kind Redeemer dy'd,
Or the faln angels room will be but ill supply'd.
That Chrift, who at the great deciding day,
(For he declares what he resolves to say)
Will damn the goats for their ill-natur’d faults,
And save the sheep for actions, not for thoughts,
Hath too much mercy to send men to hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.
To what stupidity are zealots grown,
Whose inhumanity, profusely shown
In damning crowds of souls, may dain their own.
I'll err at least on the securer lide,
A convert free from malice and from pride.
To my Friend, Mr. JOHN DRYDEN, on his several
excellent Transiations of the ancient Poets.
By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWN E.
As dowrs, transplanted from a southern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raising die ;
Missing their native sun, at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive with pain :
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a senseless draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
Must imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of style and phrase the same,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude froin thy translated song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Celestial poet! foul of harmony !
That every genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais’d to light,
Never to die, and take to heaven their flight ;
Deck'd in thy verse, "as clad with rays they fine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in i ich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still of inore ; .
To her own wooi the filks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests India's mines ;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an immortal name,
To lands remote sends forth his learned muse,
The noblest seeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feasting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is’t thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise ?
That, by comparing others, all might see,
Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.
To Mr. Dryden, by Joseph ADDISON, Esq.
H OW long, great poet, hall thy sacred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise ! Can neither injuries of time, or age, Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage ? Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote ; Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought; Pensive and fad, his drooping muse betrays The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind poffett, And second youth is kindled in thy breast.