AN

ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

HA

APPY that author', whose correct essay Repairs so well our old Horatian way: And happy you, who (by propitious fate) On great Apollo's sacred standard wait, And with strict discipline instructed right, Have learn'd to use your arms before you fight. But since the press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age, Provok'd too far, we resolutely must, To the few virtues that we have, be just. For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more To search the treasures of the Roman store; Or dig in Grecian mines for purer ore? The noblest fruits, transplanted in our isle, With early hope and fragrant blossoms smile. Familiar Ovid tender thoughts inspires, And Nature seconds all his soft desires; Theocritus does now to us belong; And Albion's rocks repeat his rural song. Who has not heard how Italy was blest, Above the Medes, above the wealthy East? Or Gallus' song, so tender and so true, As ev'n Lycoris might with pity view! When mourning nymphs attend their Daphnis' Who does not weep that reads the moving verse! But hear, oh hear, in what exalted strains Sicilian Muses through these happy plains Proclaim Saturnian times-our own Apollo reigns! When France had breath'd, after intestine broils, And peace and conquest crown'd her foreign toils; There (cultivated by a royal hand)

[hearse,

Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the land;
The choicest books that Rome or Greece have known,
Her excellent translators made her own:
And Europe still considerably gains
Both by their good example and their pains.
From hence our generous emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.

But now, we show the world a nobler way,
And in translated verse do more than they;
Serene and clear, harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be exprest in prose;
Degrading prose explains his meaning ill,
And shows the stuff, but not the workman's skill:
I (who have serv'd him more than twenty years)
Scarce know my master as he there appears.
Vain are our neighbours' hopes, and vain their cares,
The fault is more their language's than theirs:
'Tis courtly, florid, and abounds in words
Of softer sound than ours perhaps affords;
But who did ever in French authors see
The comprehensive English energy?
The weighty bullion of one sterling line,
Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages

[shine.

I speak my private, but impartial sense,
With freedom, and, I hope, without offence;
For I'll recant, when France can show me wit,
As strong as ours, and as succinctly writ.
'Tis true, composing is the nobler part,
But good translation is no easy art.

For though materials have long since been found,
Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound;
And by improving what was writ before,
Invention labours less, but judgment more.

The soil intended for Pierian seeds
Must be well purg'd from rank pedantic weeds.
Apollo starts, and all Parnassus shakes,
At the rude rumbling Baralipton makes.
For none have been with admiration read,
But who (beside their learning) were well bred.
The first great work (a task perform'd by few)
Is, that yourself may to yourself be true:
No mask, no tricks, no favour, no reserve;
Dissect your mind, examine every nerve.
Whoever vainly on his strength depends,
Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius ends.
That wretch (in spite of his forgotten rhymes)
Condemn'd to live to all succeeding times,
With pompous nonsense and a bellowing sourd
Sung lofty Ilium, tumbling to the ground.
And (if my Muse can through past ages see)
That noisy, nauseous, gaping fool was he;

Exploded, when, with universal scorn, The mountains labour'd and a mouse was born. "Learn, learn," Crotona's brawny wrestler cries, "Audacious mortals, and be timely wise! 'Tis I that call, remember Milo's end,

Wedg'd in that timber, which he strove to rend."

Each poet with a different talent writes,
One praises, one instructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays.
Examine how your humour is inclin'd,

And which the ruling passion of your mind;
Then, seek a poet who your way does bend,
And choose an author as you choose a friend.
United by this sympathetic bond,
You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; [agree,
Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls
No longer his interpreter, but he.

With how much ease is a young Muse betray'd!
How nice the reputation of the maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear,
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's affected state,
And specious Flattery's more pernicious bait,
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts,
But your neglect must answer for her faults.
Immodest words admit of no defence;
For want of decency is want of sense.
What moderate fop would rake the Park or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose?
Variety of such is to be found:

Take then a subject proper to expound:
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice,
For men of sense despise a trivial choice:
And such applause it must expect to meet,
As would some painter, busy in a street
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign,
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good,
It must delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsome objects to my view,
(As many old have done, and many new)
With nauseous images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like oxymel of squills.
Instruct the listening world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects and of lofty things.
These will such true, such bright ideas raise,
As merit gratitude, as well as praise:
But foul descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being like, or being ill.

For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd
On holy garbage, though by Homer cook'd?
Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods,
Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods.
But I offend-Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with indignation down;
My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires,
And, whom they like, implicitly admires.

On sure foundations let your fabric rise,
And with attractive majesty surprise,
Not by affected meretricious arts,
But strict harmonious symmetry of parts;
Which through the whole insensibly must pass,
With vital heat to animate the mass:
A pure, an active, an auspicious flame,
And bright as Heaven, from whence the blessing

[came;

But few, oh! few souls, preordained by Fate,
The race of gods, have reach'd that envy'd height.
No Rebel-Titan's sacrilegious crime,

By heaping hills on hills can hither climb:
The grizzly ferryman of Hell deny'd
Æneas entrance, till he knew his guide:
How justly then will impious mortals fall,
Whose pride would soar to Heaven without a call!
Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault)
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
The men, who labour and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond than boast:
For if your author be profoundly good,
"Twill cost you dear before he 's understood.
How many ages since has Virgil writ!
How few are they who understand him yet!
Approach his altars with religious fear,
No vulgar deity inhabits there:
Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod,
Than poets should before their Mantuan god.
Hail mighty Maro! may that sacred name
Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame;
Sublime ideas and apt words infuse,

The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the
What I have instanc'd only in the best,

[Muse!

Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.
Take pains the genuine meaning to explore,
There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar;
Search every comment that your care can find,
Some here, some 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,
Consult your author, with himself compar'd;
Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow,
And future ages to your labours owe?
Such secrets are not easily found out,
But, once discover'd, leave no room for doubt.
Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast,
And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.

Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright,
No cloudy doubts obscure her native light;
While in your thoughts you find the least debate,
You may confound, but never can translate.
Your style will this through all disguises show,
For none explain more clearly than they know,
He only proves he understands a text,
Whose exposition leaves it unperplex'd.
They who too faithfully on names insist,
Rather create than dissipate the mist;
And grow unjust by being over-nice,
(For superstitious virtue turns to vice.)
Let Crassus's ghost and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell.
Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame,
That few know Pacorus' or Monæses' name.
Words in one language elegantly us'd,
Will hardly in another be excus'd..
And some, that Rome admir'd in Cæsar's time,
May neither suit our genius nor our clime.
The genuine sense, intelligibly told,
Shows a translator both discreet and bold.

2

Excursions are inexpiably bad;

And 'tis much safer to leave out than add.
Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express
With painful care, but seeming easiness;
For Truth shines brightest through the plainest
dress.

2 Hor. 3. Od. vi.

Th' Enean Muse, when she appears in state,
Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait:
Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things
As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings..
Your author always will the best advise,
Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.
Affected noise is the most wretched thing,
That to contempt can empty scribblers bring.
Vowels and accents, regularly plac'd
On even syllables, (and still the last)
Though gross innumerable faults abound,
In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound.
But this is meant of even verse alone,

As being most harmonious and most known:
For if you will unequal numbers try,
There accents on odd syllables must lie.
Whatever sister of the learned Nine
Does to your suit a willing ear incline,
Urge your success, deserve a lasting name,
She 'll crown a grateful and a constant flame.
But, if a wild uncertainty prevail,

And turn your veering heart with every gale,
You lose the fruit of all your former care,
For the sad prospect of a just despair.

A quack (too scandalously mean to name)
Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame:
As if Lucina had forgot her trade,
The labouring wife invokes his surer aid.
Well-season'd bowls the gossip's spirits raise,
Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise;
And largely, what she wants in words, supplies,
With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes.
But what a thoughtless animal is man!
(How very active in his own trepan!)
For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees,
From female mellow praise he takes degrees;
Struts in a new unlicens'd gown, and then
From saving women falls to killing men.
Another such had left the nation thin,
In spite of all the children he brought in.
His pills as thick as hand-granadoes flew ;
And where they fell, as certainly they slew;
His name struck every where as great a damp,
As Archimedes through the Roman camp.
With this, the doctor's pride began to cool;
For smarting soundly may convince a fool.
But now repentance came too late for grace;
And meagre Famine star'd him in the face:
Fain would he to the wives be reconcil'd,
But found no husband left to own a child.
The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd too;
In this sad case, what could our vermin do?
Worry'd with debts, and past all hope of bail,
Th' unpity'd wretch lies rotting in a jail :
And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive,
Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive.
I pity, from my soul, unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen;
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!
But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,
Who to your country owe your swords and cares,
Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce,
For rich ill poets are without excuse.
Tis very dangerous tampering with a Muse,
The profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For though true wit adorns your birth or place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race.
No poet any passion can excite,

But what they feel transport them when they write.

Have you been led through the Cumaan cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes:
And, panting, "Lo! the god, the god," she cries;
With words not hers, and more than human sound,
She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling
through the ground.

But, though we must obey when Heaven commands,
And man in vain the sacred call withstands,
Beware what spirit rages in your breast;
For ten inspir'd, ten thousand are possest.
Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat:
So when a Muse propitiously invites,
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights;
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the radiant Sun, a glimmering lamp,
Adulterate metals to the sterling stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere human lines,
Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines;
These nervous, bold; those languid and remiss;
There, cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss.
Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide,
With foaming waves the passive Soane divide;
Whose lazy waters without motion lay,

While he, with eager force, urg'd his impetuous

way.

The privilege that ancient poets claim,
Now turn'd to licence by too just a name,
Belongs to none but an establish'd fame,
Which scorns to take it

Absurd expressions, crude, abortive thoughts,
All the lewd legion of exploded faults,
Base fugitives to that asylum fly,
And sacred laws with insolence defy.
Not thus our heroes of the former days,
Deserv'd and gain'd their never-fading bays;
For I mistake, or far the greatest part
Of what some call neglect, was study'd art.
When Virgil seems to trifle in a line,
'Tis like a warning-piece, which gives the sign
To wake your fancy, and prepare your sight,
To reach the noble height of some unusual flight.
I lose my patience, when with saucy pride,
By untun'd ears I hear his numbers try'd.
Reverse of Nature! shall such copies then
Arraign th' originals of Maro's pen!
And the rude notions of pedantic schools
Blaspheme the sacred founder of our rules!

The delicacy of the nicest ear
Finds nothing harsh or out of order there.
Sublime or low, unbended or intense,
The sound is still a comment to the sense.

A skilful ear in numbers should preside,
And all disputes without appeal decide.
This ancient Rome and elder Athens found,
Before mistaken stops debauch'd the sound.
When, by impulse from Heaven, Tyrtæus sung
In drooping soldiers a new courage sprung;
Reviving Sparta now the fight maintain'd,
And what two generals lost a poet gain'd.
By secret influence of indulgent skies,
Empire and Poesy together rise.

True poets are the guardians of a state,
And, when they fail, portend approaching Fate,

It is your place to wait upon her name
Through the vast regions of eternal fame.
True poets' souls to princes are ally'd,
And the world's empire with its kings divide.
Heaven trusts the present time to monarchs' care,
Eternity is the good writer's share'.

TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON;

OCCASIONED BY

HIS LORDSHIP'S ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

PROM THE LATIN OF MR. CHARLES DRYDEN.

BY MR. NEEDLER.

THAT happy Britain boasts her tuneful race,
And laurel wreaths her peaceful temples grace,
The honour and the praise is justly due
To you alone, illustrious earl! to you.
For soon as Horace, with his artful page,

By thee explain'd, had taught the listening age;
Of brightest bards arose a skilful train,
Who sweetly sung in their immortal strain.
No more content great Maro's steps to trace,
New paths we search, and tread unbeaten ways.
Ye Britons, then, triumphantly rejoice;
And with loud peals, and one consenting voice,
Applaud the man who does unrivall❜d sit,
"The sovereign judge and arbiter of wit!"

For, led by thee, an endless train shall rise
Of poets, who shall climb superior skies;
Heroes and gods in worthy verse shall sing,
And tune to Homer's lay the lofty string.

Thy works too, sovereign bard! if right I see, They shall translate with equal majesty; While with new joy thy happy shade shall rove Through the blest mazes of th' Elysian grove, And, wondering, in Britannia's rougher tongue To find thy heroes and thy shepherds sung, Shall break forth in these words: "Thy favour'd

name,

Great heir and guardian of the Mantuan fame!
How shall my willing gratitude pursue
With praises large as to thy worth are due?
Though tasteless bards, by Nature never taught,
In wretched rhymes disguise my genuine thought;
Though Homer now the wars of godlike kings
In Ovid's soft enervate numbers sings:
Tuneful Silenus, and the matchless verse,
That does the birth of infant worlds rehearse,
Atones for all; by that my rescued fame
Shall vie in age with Nature's deathless frame;
By thee the learned song shall nobly live,
And praise from every British tongue receive.
"Give to thy daring genius then the rein,
And freely launch into a bolder strain;
Nor with these words my happy spirit grieve:
The last good office of thy friend receive 3.'
"On the firm base of thy immortal lays,
A nobler pile to thy lov'd Maro raise:
My glory by thy skill shall brighter shine,
With native charms and energy divine!
Britain with just applause the work shall read,
And crown with fadeless bays thy sacred head.

See Miscellany Poems, 1780, vol. iii. p. 173. 2 Virgil. H. N.

Nor shall thy Muse the graver's pencil need,
To draw the hero on his prancing steed;
Thy living verse shall paint th' embattled host
In bolder figures than his art can boast.
While the low tribe of vulgar writers strive,、
By mean false arts, to make their versions live;
Forsake the text, and blend each sterling line
With comments foreign to my true design;
My latent sense thy happier thought explores,
And injur'd Maro to himself restores."

A

PARAPHRASE ON THE CXLVIIIth PSALM. O AZURE vaults! O crystal sky!

The world's transparent canopy,

Break your long silence, and let mortals know
With what contempt you look on things below.
Wing'd squadrons of the god of war,
Who conquer wheresoe'er you are,
Let echoing anthems make his praises known
On Earth his footstool, as in Heaven his throne.

Great eye of all whose glorious ray
Rules the bright empire of the day,
O praise his name, without whose purer light
Thou hadst been hid in an abyss of night.

Ye moon and planets, who dispense,
By God's command, your influence;
Resign to him, as your Creator due,
That veneration which men pay to you.

Fairest, as well as first, of things,

From whom all joy, all beauty springs; O praise th' Almighty Ruler of the globe, Who useth thee for his empyreal robe.

Praise him, ye loud harmonious spheres, Who did all forms from the rude chaos draw, Whose sacred stamp all Nature bears,

And whose command is th' universal law:

Ye watery mountains of the sky,
And you so far above our eye,
Vast ever-moving orbs, exalt his name,
Who gave its being to your glorious frame.

Ye dragons, whose contagious breath
Peoples the dark retreats of Death,
Change your fierce hissing into joyful song,
And praise your Maker with your forked tongue.

Praise him, ye monsters of the deep,
That in the sea's vast bosoms sleep;
At whose command the foaming billows roar,
Yet know their limits, tremble and adore.

Ye mists and vapours, hail and snow,
And you who through the concave blow,
Swift executors of his holy word,

Whirlwinds and tempests, praise th' Almighty Lord.

Mountains, who to your Maker's view
Seem less than mole-hills do to you,
Remember how, when first Jehovah spoke,
All Heaven was fire, and Sinai hid in smoke.

Praise him sweet offspring of the ground,
With heavenly nectar yearly crown'd;

That in his temple sacred altars raise.