« 上一頁繼續 »
While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;
find “ the cooling western breeze," 350 In the next live, it " whispers thro' the trees:”
If chrystal streams “ with pleasing murmurs creep,”
The reader's threaten’d (not in vain) with“ sleep;"
Then at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 355
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What’s roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the seuse.
A trepar nelle, déz palavras baxas.
que segue, entre as folhas se retira.
O vigôr facil de hum bom verso amemos,
Denham faz resoar a lyra
Vem d'arte o escrever bem naõ vem do acaso.
Quem aprende a dançar, melhor se move,
Naõ basta a o verso, ser brando, innocente
O som déve ser éco do sentido
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow: 371
Not so, when swift Camilla-scours the plain,
Flies o'er th’ unbending corn, and skims along the
Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While at each change, the son of Lybian Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow :
He doce o verso, em que o favonio sópra
Placido corre, o numero cadente,
Que o murmurio imita da corrente.
Mas quando a vaga altiva a praia bate,
Cada modulaçaõ cria hum prodigio.
Ora hum ardôr de gloria, que o devora
Ora de amor hum fogo que o derrete.
Sae' de seus olhos dardos furiosos
Rompem seu peito, os ais, seu pranto corre;
Persians and Greeks like turns of Nature found, 380
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
Aud what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleas’d too little or too much;
At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
That always shows great pride, or little sense:
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
As things seem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize.