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“O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
“My great example, as it is my theme !
“Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull ;
“Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.”

The lines are in themselves not perfect: for most of the words, thus artfully opposed, are to be understood simply on one side of the comparison, and metaphorically on the other; and if there be any language that does not express intellectual operations by material images, into that language they cannot be translated. But so much meaning is comprised in so few words; the particulars of resemblance are so perspicaciously collected, and every mode of excellence separated from its adjacent fault by so nice a line of limitation; the different parts of the sentence are so accurately adjusted; and the flow of the last couplet is so smooth and sweet; that the passage, however celebrated, has not been praised above its merit. It has beauty peculiar to itself, and must be numbered among those felicities which cannot be produced at will by wit and labour, but must arise unexpectedly in some hour propitious to poetry.

He appears to have been one of the first that understood the necessity of emancipating translation from the drudgery of counting lines and interpreting single words. How much this servile practice obscured the clearest and deformed the most beautiful parts of the ancient authors, may be discovered by a perusal of our earlier versions; some of them are the works of men well qualified, not only by critical knowledge, but by poetical genius, who yet, by a mistaken ambition of exactness, degraded at once their originals and themselves.

Denham saw the better way, but has not pursued it with great success. His versions of Virgil are not

pleasing; but they taught Dryden to please better. His poetical imitation of Tully on “Old Age,” has neither the clearness of prose, nor the sprightliness of poetry.

The “strength, of Denham,” which Pope so emphatically mentions, is to be found in many lines and couplets, which convey much meaning in few words, and exhibit the sentiment with more weight than bulk.

On the Thames.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold;
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.

On Strafford.

His wisdom such, at once it did appear
Three kingdoms’ wonder, and three kingdoms’ fear.
While single he stood forth, and seem’d, although
Each had an army, as an equal foe,
Such was his force of eloquence, to make
The hearers more concern’d than he that spake :
Each seem’d to act that part he came to see,
And none was more a looker-on than he ;
So did he move our passions, some were known
To wish, for the defence, the crime their own.
Now private pity strove with publick hate,
Reason with rage, and 'eloquence with fate.

On Cowley.

To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own :
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate |
And, when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear.

As one of Denham's principal claims to the regard

of posterity arises from his improvement of our numbets, his versification ought to be considered. It

will afford that pleasure which arises from the observation of a man of judgment, naturally right, forsaking bad copies by degrees, and advancing towards a better practice as he gains more confidence in himself.

In his translation of Virgil, written when he was about twenty-one years old, may be still found the old manner of continuing the sense ungracefully from Verse to Verse :

Then all those
Who in the dark our fury did escape,
Returning, know our borrow’d arms, and shape,
And different dialect; then their numbers swell
And grow upon us; first Chorebeus fell
Before Minerva’s altar; next did bleed
Just Riphens, whom no Trojan did exceed
In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed.
Than Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by
Their friends; nor thee, Pantheus, thy piety,
Nor consecrated mitre, from the same
I'll fate could save; my country’s funeral flame
And Troy’s cold ashes I attest, and call
To witness for myself, that in their fall
No foes, no death, nor danger, I declin'd,
Did, and deserv’d no less, my fate to find.

From this kind of concatenated metre he afterwards refrained, and taught his followers the art of concluding their sense in couplets; which has perhaps been with rather too much constancy pursued.

This passage exhibits one of those triplets which are not unfrequent in this first essay, but which it is to be supposed his maturer judgment disapproved, since. in his latter works he has totally foreborne them.

His rhymes are such as seem found without difficulty, by following the sense; and are for the most part as exact at least as those of other poets, though now and then the reader is shifted off with what he can gets

O how transform'd/
How much unlike that Hector who return’d
Clad in Achilles' spoils!

And again:

From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung
Like petty princes from the fall of Rome.

Sometimes the weight of rhyme is laid upon a word too feeble to sustain it:

Troy confounded falls
From all her glories: if it might have stood
By any power, by this right hand it shou’d.
—And though my outward state misfortune hath
Deprest thus low, it cannot reach my faith.
—Thus, by his fraud, and our own faith o'ercome,
A feigned tear destroys us against whom
Tydides nor Achilles could prevail,
Nor ten years' conflict, nor a thousand sail.

He is not very careful to vary the ends of his verses; in one passage the word die rhymes three couplets in Six.

Most of these petty faults are in his first productions, where he was less skilful, or at least less dextrous in the use of words; and though they had been more frequent, they could only have lessened the grace, not the strength of his composition. He is one of the writers that improved our taste, and advanced our language; and whom we ought therefore to read with gratitude, though having done much, he kft much to do.

MILTON.

THE life of MIETon has been already written in so many forms, and with such minute inquiry, that I might perhaps more properly have contented myself with the addition of a few notes on Mr Fenton’s elegant abridgment, but that a new narrative was thought necessary to the uniformity of this edition. John Mitton was by birth a gentleman, descended from the proprietors of Milton near Thame, in Oxfordshire, one of whom forfeited his estate in the times of York and Lancaster. Which side he took I know not; his descendant inherited no veneration for the White Rose. His grandfather John was keeper of the forest of Shotover, a zealous papist, who disinherited his son because he had forsaken the religion of his ancestors. His father, John, who was the son disinherited, had recourse for his support to the profession of a scrivener. He was a man eminent for his skill in musick, many of his compositions being still to be found; and his reputation in his profession was such, that he grew rich, and retired to an estate. He had probably more than common literature, as his son addresses him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married a gentlewoman of the name of Caston, a Welsh family, by whom he had two sons,

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