Hath too much mercy to send men to hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.
To what stupidity are zealots grown,
Whofe inhumanity, profufely fhown
In damning crowds of fouls, may damn their own.
I'll err at least on the fecurer fide,
A convert free from malice and from pride.
To my Friend, Mr. JOHN DRYDEN, on his feveral excellent Tranflations of the ancient Poets.
By G. GRANVILLE, Lord LANSDOWNE.
S flow'rs, tranfplanted from a fouthern iky,
But hardly bear, or in the railing die;
Miffing their native fun, at beft retain
But a faint odour, and furvive with pain:
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a fenfelefs draught.
While we transfufe, the nimble fpirit flies,
Escapes unfeen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit defire,
Muft 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 tranflated song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Coeleftial poet! foul of harmony!
That every genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy trumpet founds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verfe, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for ufe, for luxury, and pride,
Yet fpreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, infatiate still of more;
To her own wool the filks of Afia 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 fends forth his learned muse,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feafting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might fee,
Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.
To Mr. DRYDEN, by JOSEPH ADDISON, Efq.
OW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder, and tranfcend our praise ! Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage ?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
Grief chill'd his breaft, and check'd his rifing thought; Penfive and fad, his drooping mufe betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breaft.
'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 teacheft Perfius to inform our isle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer style:
And Juvenal, inftructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, 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 ftory in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe, and fair tranflations fhow
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 fickness interrupt thy song:
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams,
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a fecond 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.
From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the ENGLISH POETS.
BUT fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful muse affords The fweeteft numbers and the fitteft words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, fhe moves our fimiles and tears. If fatire or heroic ftrains the writes,
Her hero pleafes, and her fatire bites.
From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all:
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear!
Congreve! whofe fancy's unexhaufted ftore
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve fhall ftill preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive.
On ALEXANDER'S FEAST: Or, The POWER of MUSICK. An ODE.
From Mr POPE'S ESSAY on CRITICISM, 1. 376.
EAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow.
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdued by found.
The power of Mufick all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
From an ODE of GRAY'S.
Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :
Two courfers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding 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
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