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Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than Paint adds Charms unto a beauteous Face.
Yet as, when mighty Rivers gently creep,

Their even Calmnefs does suppose them deep;
Such is your Mufe: No Metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the Sky:
Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again,
Shew Sand and Dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a Strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's Riddle meet.

'Tis ftrange each Line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no fign of Toil, no Sweat appear.
Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign
Then least to feel, when moft they fuffer Pain;
And we, dull Souls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden Springs within the Engine be:
Or 'tis fome Happiness that still pursues
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,
Lets thro' its Meshes every 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 deftroy the Providence of Wit.
'Tis your ftrong Genius then which does not feel

Those Weights, wou'd make a weaker Spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

* Rete Mirabile.

Great

Great Hercules himself cou'd ne'er do more,
Than not to feel thofe Heav'ns and Gods he bore.
Your eafier 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 wooe
At once a Beauty, and a Fortune too.

Of Moral Knowledge Poefy was Queen,

And still she 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 fuccefsful Pen
Reftores the Exil'd to her Crown again :
And gives us hope, that having feen the Days
When nothing flourish'd but Fanatick Bays,
All will at length in this Opinion rest,

"A Sober Prince's Government is best.
This is not all; your Art the way has found
To make th' Improvement of the richest Ground,
That Soil which those Immortal Laurels bore,
That once the Sacred Maro's Temples wore.
Elifa's Griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too Eloquent to have been true.
Had the so spoke, Eneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.
If Funeral Rites can give a Ghost Repose,
Your Muse so juftly has discharged those,
Elifa's Shade may now its wandring cease,
And claim a Title to the Fields of Peace.
But if Eneas be oblig❜d, no less
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

Then we shall see his Work was lamely rough,
Each Figure ftiff, as if design'd in Buff :
His Colours laid so thick on every 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 Sight obligingly mistakes

That Wealth, which his your Bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar Dishes are, by Cooks difguis'd,
More for their dreffing, than their fubftance priz'd.
Your curious* Notes so fearch into that Age,
When all was Fable but the Sacred Page,

That, fince in that dark Night we needs muft ftray,
We are at least mis-led in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your Verse no less
The Prophet than the Poet doth confess.

Ere our weak Eyes difcern'd the doubtful Streak
Of Light, you faw Great Charles his Morning break.
So skilful Seamen ken the Land from far,
Which fhews like Mifts to the dull Passenger.
To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous Love,
As ftill the Antients 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 Intereft, 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.

Annotations on Statius.

Hic fitus eft Rufus, qui pulso vindice quondam
Imperium afferuit non fibi, fed Patria.

** This

"This Work, by Merit firft of Fame fecure,

"Is likewife happy in its Geniture :

"For, fince 'tis born when Charles afcends the Throne, "It shares, at once, his Fortune and its own.

To the Earl of Rofcommon, on his excellent Effay on Translated Verse.

Hether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian Shore,

WE

The Seeds of Arts and Infant Science bore,
'Tis fure the noble Plant, tranflated firft,
Advanc'd its Head in Grecian Gardens nurft.
The Grecians added Verfe: their tuneful Tongue
Made Nature first, and Nature's God their Song.
Nor ftopt Tranflation here: For conqu'ring Rome,
With Grecian Spoils, brought Grecian Numbers home;
Enrich'd by those Athenian Muses more,

Than all the vanquifh'd World cou'd yield before.
'Till barb'rous Nations, and more barb'rous Times,
Debas'd the Majefty of Verse to Rhimes;
Those rude at firft: a kind of hobbling Profe,
That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the Trance
Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkih Ignorance,
With Paufes, Cadence, and well-vowel'd Words,
And all the Graces a good Ear affords,

Made Rhyme an Art, and Dante's polish'd Page
Reftor'da Silver, not a Golden Age.

Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see,
What Rhyme improv'd in all its height can be:
At beft a pleasing Sound, and fair Barbarity.
The French purfu'd their Steps; and Britain, last,
In manly Sweetnefs all the reft furpass'd.

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The

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 Roscommon's Pen.
Yet modeftly he does his Work survey,
And calls a finish'd Poem an ESSAY;
For all the needful Rules are scatter'd here;
Truth smoothly 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 so bright;
That he, who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own Horace could fuch Rules ordain,
Or his own Virgil fing a nobler Strain.

- How much in him may rifing Ireland boaft,
How much in gaining him has Britain lost !
Their Island in revenge has ours reclaim'd;
The more inftructed we, the more we still are fham'd.
'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 tranflated England first :
By this Reprifal we regain our Right,
Elfe muft the two contending Nations fight;
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 Tranflation thrive,
When Authors nobly born will bear their part,
And not disdain th' inglorious Praise of Art !
Great Generals thus, descending from Command,
With their own Toil provoke the Soldiers Hand.

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How

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