Roscommon,

Roscommon.

Wentworth Dillon, Graf von Roscommon, geb. in Irland ums J. 1633, geft. 1684. Man hat von ihm nur wenige Gedichte, die aber noch immer sehr geschågt werden, und von ihnen feines so sehr als sein Essay on Translated Verse. Dr. Johnson giebt ihm (Lives, Vol./I, p. 325.) das rähmliche Seugniß, daß er vielleicht der einzige korrekte englische Schriftsteller vor Addison sey; und Pope erklårt ihn für den einzigen moralisch unsträflichen Dichter unter Karls 1. Regierung:

in all Charles's days

Rofcommon only boafts unfpotted lays.

Viel Neues und Eigenthümliches enthält freilich der Untere richt nicht, der in diesem Versuche dem Ueberfeßer eines poeż tischen Werks ertheilt wird. Er schränkt sich vornehmlich auf die Pflichten ein, daß jencr ein seinem Genie gemåßes, der Ueberseßung würdiges, Original wählen, daß er daffelbe völlig verstehen, alles Dunkle und Sprachwidrige vermeiden, und alle die verschiednen Schattirungen der Schreibart beibehalten müsse. Aber das größte Verdienst dieses Gedichts ist die Art seiner Ausführung, die gewiß, des an sich trock nen Gegenstandes wegen nicht wenig Schwierigkeiten hatte, und der edle, männliche, eindruckvolle Lehrton, der diesen Versuch zu dem Range eines würdigen Gegenstücks von Pos pe's Versuch über die Kritik erhebt.

ESSAY ON TRANSLATING

VERSE.

The first great Work, (a Task perform'd by

few)

Is, that yourself may to yourself be true:
No Mafk, no Tricks, no Favour, no Referve;
Diffect your Mind, examine ev'ry Nerve.
Whoever vainly on his Strength depends,
Begins like Virgil, but like Maevius, ends,

That

That Wretch (in spite of his forgotten Rhymes)
Condemn'd to live thro' all fucceeding Times,
With pompous Nonfenfe and a bellowing Sound
Sung lofty llium tumbling to the Ground.
And (if the Mufe can through paft Ages fee)
That noify, naufeous, gaping fool was he;
Exploded when with univerfal fcorn

The Mountains laboured and a Moufe was born,

Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler
cries,

Audacious Mortals, and be timely wife!

'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,

Wedg'd in that Timber, which he ftrove to rend.
Each Poet with a different Talent writes,
One praises, one inftructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er alpire to Epic Bays,
Nor lofty Maro ftoop to Lyric Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the ruling Paffion of your Mind;
Then, feeck a Poet who your way does bend,
And choose an Author as you choose a Friend.
United by this fympathetic Bond,

You grow familiar, intimate, and fond;

Your Thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your

Souls agree,

No longer his Interpreter, but He.

With how much Eafe is a young Mufe be
tray'd,

How nice the Reputation of the Maid?
Your early, kind, paternal Care appears,
By chaft Inftruction of her tender Years.
The first Impreffion in her infant Breaft
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not Aufterity breed fervile Fear;
No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's affected State,
And specious Flatt'ry's more pernicious Bait,

Roscommon

Ha

Roscommon. Habitual Innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your Neglect muft answer for her Faults.

Immodeft Words admit of no Defence;

For want of Decency is want of Sense,

What mod'rate Fop wou'd rake the Park or Stews, Who among Troops of faultlefs Nymphs may choofe?

Variety of fuch is to be found;

Take then a fubject, proper to expound;
But moral, great, and worth a Poet's Voice,
For Men of sense despise a trivial Choice:
And fuch Applause it must expect to meet,
As would fome Painter bufy in a Street,
To copy Bulls and Bears, and ev'ry Sign
That calls the staring Sots to nafty Wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a Subject good,
It must delight us, when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulfom Objects to my View,
(As many Old have done, and many New)
With naufeous Images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like Oximel of Squills.
Inftruct the lift'ning World how Maro fings
Of useful Subjects, and of lofty Things.
Those will fuch true, fuch bright Ideas raife,
As merit Gratitude as well as Praife:
But foul Defcriptions are offenfive still,
Either for being like, or being ill.

For who, without a Qualm, hath ever look'd
On holy Garbage, tho' by Homer cook'd?

Whofe railing Heroes, and whofe wounded Gods,
Make fome fufpect, He fnores, as well as nods.
But I offend Virgil begins to frown,

And Horace looks with Indignation down:
My blufhing Mufe with confcious Fear retires,
And whom they like, implicitly admires.

On fure foundations let your Fabrick rife,
And with attractive Majefty surprise.

Not

Not by affected, meretricious Arts,

But ftrict harmonious Symmetry of Parts,

Which through the Whole infenfibly muft pafs,
With vital Heat to animate the Mafs.

A pure, an active, an aufpicious Flame,

And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Bleffing

came;

But few, oh few Souls, preordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd
Height.

No Rebel-Titan's facrilegious Crime,

By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.
The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd
Aeneas Entrance, 'till he knew his Guide;

How justly then will impious Mortals fall,

Whofe Pride wou'd foar to Heav'n without a
Call?

Pride (of all others the most dang'rous Fault,)
Proceeds from want of Senfe, or want of Thought.
The Men, who labour and digeft things most,
Will be much apter to defpond, than boaft.
For if your Author be profoundly good,
'Twill cost you dear, before he's understood.
How many Ages fince has Virgil writ?
How few are they who understand him yet?
Approach his Altars with religious Fear,
No vulgar Deity inhabits there:

Heav'n Ihakes not more at Jove's imperial Nod,
Than Poets fhou'd before their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty Maro! may that facred Name
Kindle.my Breaft with thy celeftial Flame!
Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse,

The Mufe inftruct my Voice, and thou inspire the
Mufe!

What I have inftanc'd only in the best,

Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.

Take pains, the genuine Meaning to explore;
There sweat, there ftrain, tug the laborious Oar:

Beisp. Samml. 3. B.

I

Search

Roscommon

Romfcomon, Search ev'ry Comment that your Care can find, Some here, fome there, may hit the Poet's

Mind;

Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng;
The Multitude is always in the Wrong.
When Things appear unnatural or hard,
Confult your Author, with himself compar'd,
Who knows what Bleffing Phoebus may bestow,
And future Ages to your Labour owe?
Such Secrets are not eafily found out,

But once difcover'd, leave no room for doubt.
Truth ftamps Conviction in your ravish'd Breast,
And Peace and Joy attend the glorious Gueft.

John