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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 damn their own.
I'll err at least on the securer fide,
A convert free from malice and from pride.

}

To my Friend, Mr. John Dryden, on his several

excellent Translations of the ancient Poets.

By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNI.

}

As flow’rs, transplanted from a fouthern Iky,

But hardly bear, or in the railing die ;
Missing their native fun, at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive with pain :
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warınth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a senseless draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble spirit tlies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit defire,
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 from thy translated song,
So juft, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Cæleftial poet! foul of harmony !
That every genius was reviv'd in thee.

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Thy

,

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 shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich soil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still of more ;
To her own wool 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, shall thy facred 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 Qvid in his exile wrote ; Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought; Pensive and sad, his drooping muse betrays The Roman genius in its lait decays.

Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, And second youth is kindled in thy breast.

Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own :
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle
In fimoother numbers, and a clearer style :
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse, and fair translations show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang’d by angry Gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods.

O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong, Nor age, nor sickness interrupt thy song : Then may we wondering read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv’d in streams, Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould Turn’d yellow by degrees, and ripen’d into gold : How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform’d, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Mag. Coll. Oxon.
June 2, 1693.

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From

From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the

ENGLISH POETS.

B

UT see where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev’n in years. Great Dryden next! whpfe tuneful muse affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs, She forms her voice, she moves our smiles and tears. If satire or heroic strains she writes, Her hero plcases, and her fatire bites. From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall, She wears all dresses, and the charins in all : How might we fear our English poetry, That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee; Did not the Muses' other hope appear, Harinonious Congreve, and forbid our fcar ! Congreve ! whose fancy's unexhausted store Has given already much, and promis’d more. Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive, And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive.

On

On ALEXANDER'S FEAST : Or, The

Power of MUSICK. An ODE.

From Mr Pope's Essay on Criticism, 1. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary. d lays furprize

,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise !
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs steal out, and tears begin to flow.
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by found.
The
power

of Musick all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

CHARACTER of DRY D E N,

From an ODE of GR AY'S.

BE
Ehold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more-

Oh!

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