"When he had just got to be easy in his fortune, and was in a fair way to make it better, death swept him away, and in him deprived the world of one of the best meu, as well as one of the best geniuses of the age. He died like a christian and a philosopher, in charity with all mankind, and with an absolute resignation to the will of -God. He kept up his good-humour to the last; and took leave of his wife and friends, immediately before his last agony, with the same tranquillity of mind, and the same indifference for life, as though he had been upon taking but a short journey, He was twice married; first to a daughter of Mr. Parsons, one of the auditors of the revenue; and afterwards to a daughter of Mr. Devenish, of a good family in Dorsetshire. By the first he had a son; and by the second a daughter, married afterwards to Mr. Fane. He died the 6th of December, 1718, in the forty-fifth year of his age; and was buried the 19th of the same month in Westminster-abbey, in the aile where many of our English poets are interred, over against Chaucer, his body being attended by a select number of his friends, and the dean and choir officiating at the funeral.”
To this character, which is apparently given with the fondness of a friend, may be added the testimony of Pope, who says in a letter to Blount," Mr. Rowe accompanied me, and passed a week in the forest. I need not tell you how much a man of his turn entertained me; but I must acquaint you, there is a vivacity and gaiety of disposition, almost peculiar to him, which make it impossible to part from him without that uneasiness which generally succeeds all our pleasure."
Pope has left behind him another mention of his companion, less advantageous, which is thus reported by Dr. Warburton.
Rowe, in Mr. Pope's opinion, maintained a decent character, but had no heart. Mr. Addison was justly offended with some behaviour which arose from that want, and estranged himself from him; which Rowe felt very severely. Mr. Pope, their common friend, knowing this, took an opportunity, at some juncture of Mr. Addison's advancement, to tell him how poor Rowe was grieved at his displeasure, and what satisfaction he expressed at Mr. Addison's good fortune, which he expressed so naturally, that he (Mr. Pope) could not but think him sincere. Mr. Addison replied, I do not suspect that he feigned; but the levity of his heart is such, that he is struck with any new adventure; and it would affect him just in the same manner, if he heard I was going to be hanged.'-Mr. Pope said he could not deny but Mr. Addison understood Rowe well."
This censure time has not left us the power of confirming or refuting; but observation daily shows, that much stress is not to be laid on hyperbolical accusations, and pointed sentences, which even he that utters them desires to be applauded rather than credited. Addison can hardly be supposed to have meant all that he said. Few characters can bear the microscopic scrutiny of wit quickened by anger; and perhaps the best advice to authors would be, that they should keep out of the way of one another.
Rowe is chiefly to be considered as a tragic writer and a translator. In his attempt at comedy he failed so ignominiously, that his Biter is not inserted in his works; and his occasional poems and short compositions are rarely worthy of either praise or censure; for they seem the casual sports of a mind seeking rather to amuse its leisure than to exercise its powers.
In the construction of his dramas, there is not much art; he is not a nice observer of the unities. He extends time and varies place as his convenience requires. To vary
the place is not, in my opinion, any violation of nature, if the change be made between the acts; for it is no less easy for the spectator to suppose himself at Athens in the second act, than at Thebes in the first; but to change the scene, as is done by Rowe, in the middle of an act, is to add more acts to the play, since an act is so much of the business as is transacted without interruption. Rowe, by this licence, easily extricates himself from difficulties; as, in Jane Gray, when we have been terrified with all the dreadful pomp of public execution, and are wondering how the heroine or the poet will proceed, no sooner has Jane pronounced some prophetic rhymes, than-pass and be gone-the scene closes, and Pembroke and Gardiner are turned out upon the stage.
I know not that there can be found in his plays any deep search into nature, any accurate discriminations of kindred qualities or nice display of passion in its progress; all is general and undefined. Nor does he much interest or affect the auditor, except in Jane Shore, who is always seen and heard with pity. Alicia is a character of empty noise, with no resemblance to real sorrow or to natural madness.
Whence, then, has Rowe his reputation? From the reasonableness and propriety of some of his scenes, from the elegance of his diction, and the suavity of his verse. He seldom moves either pity or terrour, but he often elevates the sentiments; he seldom pierces the breast, but he always delights the ear, and often improves the understanding.
His translation of the Golden Verses, and of the first book of Quillet's Poem, have nothing in them remarkable. The Golden Verses are tedious.
The version of Lucan is one of the greatest productions of English poetry; for there is perhaps none that so completely exhibits the genius and spirit of the original. Lucan is distinguished by a kind of dictatorial or philosophic diguity, rather, as Quintilian observes, declamatory than poetical; full of ambitious morality and pointed sentences, comprised in vigorous and animated lines. This character Rowe has very diligently and successfully preserved. His versification, which is such as his contemporaries practised, without any attempt at innovation or improvement, seldom wants either melody or force. His author's sense is sometimes a little diluted by additional infusions, and sometimes weakened by too much expansion. But such faults are to be expected in all translations, from the constraint of measures and dissimilitude of languages. The Pharsalia of Rowe deserves more notice than it obtains, and as it is more read will be more esteemed".
6 The Life of Rowe is a very remarkable instance of the uncommon strength of Dr. Johnson's memory. When I received from him the MS. he complacently observed, "that the criticism was tolerably well done, considering that he had not seen Rowe's works for thirty years." N.
THE GOLDEN VERSES OF PYTHAGORAS. | Bear all thou canst, still with his failings strive,
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.
TO THE READER.
I hope the reader will forgive the liberty I have taken in translating these verses somewhat at large, without which it would have been almost impossible to have given any kind of turn in English poetry to so dry a subject. The sense of the author is, I hope, no where mistaken; and if there seems in some places to be some additions in the English verses to the Greek text, they are only such as may be justified from Hierocles's Commentary, and delivered by him as the larger and explained sense of the author's short precept. I have in some few places
ventured to differ from the learned Mr. Dacier's French interpretation, as those that shall give themselves the trouble of a strict comparison will find. How far I am in the right, is left to the reader to determine.
FIRST to the gods thy humble homage pay;
The greatest this, and first of laws obey:
Perform thy vows, observe thy plighted troth,
And let religion bind thee to thy oath.
The heroes next demand thy just regard,
Renown'd on Earth, and to the stars preferr'd,
To light and endless life, their virtue's sure rc-
ward.
Due rights perform and honours to the dead,
To every wise, to every pious shade.
With lowly duty to thy parents bow,
And grace and favour to thy kindred show:
For what concern the rest of human kind,
Choose out the man to virtue best inclin'd;
Him to thy arms receive, him to thy bosom bind.
Possest of such a friend, preserve him still;
Nor thwart his counsels with thy stubborn will;
Pliant to all his admonitions prove,
And yield to all his offices of love:
Him from thy heart, so true, so justly dear,
Let no rash word nor light offences tear.
And to the utmost still, and still forgive;
For strong necessity alone explores
The secret vigour of our latent powers,
Rouses and urges on the lazy heart,
Force, to itself unknown before, t' exert.
By use thy stronger appetites asswage,
Thy gluttony, thy sloth, thy lust, thy rage:
From each dishonest act of shame forbear;
Of others, and thyself, alike beware.
Let reverence of thyself thy thoughts control,
And guard the sacred temple of thy soul.
Let justice o'er thy word and deed preside,
And reason e'en thy meanest actions guide:
For know that death is man's appointed doom,
Know that the day of great account will come,
When thy past life shall strictly be survey'd,
Each word, each deed, be in the balance laid,
And all the good and all the ill most justly be re-
For wealth, the perishing, uncertain good, [paid.
Ebbing and flowing like the fickle flood,
That knows no sure, no fix'd abiding-place,
But wandering loves from hand to hand to pass;
Revolve the getter's joy and loser's pain,
And think if it be worth thy while to gain.
Of all those sorrows that attend mankind,
With patience bear the lot to thee assign'd:
Nor think it chance, nor murmur at the load;
For know what man calls fortune is from God.
In what thou may'st, from wisdom seek relief,
And let her healing hand asswage thy grief;
Yet still whate'er the righteous doom ordains,
What cause soever multiplies thy pains,
Let not those pains as ills be understood;
For God delights not to afflict the good.
The reasoning art, to various ends apply'd,
Is oft a sure, but oft an erring guide.
Thy judgment therefore sound and cool preserve,
Nor lightly from thy resolution swerve;
The dazzling pomp of words does oft deceive,
And sweet persuasion wins the easy to believe.
When fools and liars labour to persuade,
Be dumb, and let the babblers vainly plead.
This above all, this precept chiefly learn,
This nearly does, and first, thyself concern;
Let not example, let no soothing tongue,
Prevail upon thee with a Syren's song,
To do thy soul's inmortal essence wrong.
Of good and ill by words or deeds exprest
Choose for thyselt, and always choose the best.
Let wary thought each enterprise forerun,
And ponder on thy task before begun,
Lest folly should the wretched work deface,
And mock thy fruitless labours with disgrace.
Fools huddle on, and always are in haste, [waste.
Act without thought, and thoughtless words they
But thou, in all thou dost, with early cares
Strive to prevent at first a fate like theirs;
That sorrow on the end may never wait,
Nor sharp repentance make thee wise too late.
Beware thy meddling hand in ought to try,
That does beyond thy reach of knowled re lie;
But seek to know, and bend thy serious thought
To search the profitable knowledge out.
So joys on joys for ever shall increase,
Wisdom shall crown thy labours, and shall bless
Thy life with pleasure, and thy end with peace.
Nor let the body want its part, but share
A just proportion of thy tender care:
For health and welfare prudently provide,
And let its lawful wants be all supply'd.
Let sober draughts refresh, and wholesome fare
Decaying nature's wasted force repair;
And sprightly exercise the duller spirits cheer.
In all things still which to this care belong,
Observe this rule, to guard thy soul from wrong.
By virtuous use thy life and manners frame,
Manly and simply pure, and free from blame.
Provoke not Envy's deadly rage, but fly
The glancing curse of her malicious eye.
Seek not in needless luxury to waste
Thy wealth and substance with a spendthrift's haste.
Yet, flying these, be watchful, lest thy mind,
Prone to extremes, an equal danger find,
And be to sordid avarice inclin'd.
Distant alike from each, to neither lean,
But ever keep the happy golden mean.
Be careful still to guard thy soul from wrong,
And let thy thought prevent thy hand and tongue.
Let not the stealing god of sleep surprise,
Nor creep in slumbers on thy weary eyes,
Ere every action of the former day
Strictly thou dost and righteously survey.
With reverence at thy own tribunal stand,
And answer justly to thy own demand.
Where have I been? In what have I transgress'd?
What good or ill has this day's life express'd?
Where have I fail'd in what I ought to do?
In what to God, to man, or to myself I owe?
Inquire severe what-e'er from first to last, [past.
From morning's dawn, till evening's gloom, has
If evil wore thy deeds, repenting mourn,
And let thy soul with strong remorse be torn.
If good, the good with peace of mind repay,
And to thy secret self with pleasure say,
"Rejoice, my heart, for all went well to-day."
These thoughts, and chiefly these my mind should
Employ thy study, and engage thy love. [move,
These are the rules which will to virtue lead,
And teach thy feet her heavenly paths to tread.
This by his name I swear, whose sacred lore
First to mankind explain'd the mystic four,
Source of eternal nature and almighty power.
In all thou dost first let thy prayers ascend,
And to the gods thy labours first commend: [end.
From them implore success, and hope a prosperous
So shall thy abler mind be taught to soar,
And wisdom in her secret ways explore;
To range through Heaven above and Earth below,
Immortal gods and mortal men to know.
So shalt thou learn what power does all control,
What bounds the parts, and what unites the whole!
And rigntly judge in ali its wondrous frame,
How universal nature is the saine;
So shalt thou ne'er thy vain affections place
On hopes of what shall never come to pass,
Man, wretched man, thou shalt be taught to know,
Who bears within himself the inborn cause of woe.
Unhappy race! that never yet could tell,
How near their good and happiness they dwell,
Depriv'd of sense, they neither hear nor see;
Fetter'd in vice, they seek not to be free,
But stupid, to their own sad fate agree:
Like ponderous rolling-stones, oppress'd with ill,
The weight that loads them makes them roll on still,
Bereft of choice and freedom of the will;
For native strife in every bosom reigns,
And secretly an impious war maintains:
Provoke not this, but let the combat cease,
And every yielding passion sue for peace. [kind,
Would'st thou, great Jove, thou father of man-
Reveal the demon for that task assign'd,
The wretched race an end of woes would find.
And yet be bo'd, O man, divine thou art,
And of the gods celestial essence part,
Nor sacred Nature is from thee conceal'd,
But to thy race her mystic rules reveal'd.
These if to know thou happily attain,
Son shalt thou perfect be in all that I ordain.
Thy wounded soul to health thou shalt restore,
And free from every pain she felt before.
Abstain, I warn, from meats unclean and foul,
So keep thy body pure, so free thy soul;
So rightly judge; thy reason to maintain;
Reason which Heaven did for thy guide ordain,
Let that best reason ever hold the rein..
Then if this mortal body thou forsake,
Among the gods exalted shalt thou shine,
And thy glad flight to the pure ether take,
Immortal, incorruptible, divine:
The tyrant Death securely shalt thou brave,
And scorn the dark dominion of the grave.
ON THE LATE GLORIOUS SUCCESSES, &c. HUMBLY
INSCRIBED TO THE LORD TREASURER GODOL-
PHIN.
WHILE kings and nations on thy counsels wait,
And Anna trusts to thee the British state
While Fame, to thee, from every foreign coast,
Flies with the news of empires won and lost,
Relates whate'er her busy eyes beheld,
While, with officious duty, crowds attend,
And tells the fortune of each bloody field;
To hail the labours of thy god-like friend,
Vouchsafe the Muse's humbler joy to hear;
For sacred numbers shall be still thy care;
Though mean the verse, though lowly be the strain.
Though least regarded be the Muse, of all the
tuneful train,
TO THE EARL OF GODOLPHIN.
Yet rise, neglected nymph, avow thy flame,
Assert th' inspiring god, and greatly aim
To make thy numbers equal to thy theme.
From Heaven derive thy verse; to Heaven belong
The counsels of the wise, and battles of the strong.
To Heaven the royal Anna owes, alone,
The virtues which adorn and guard her throne;
Thence is her justice wretches to redress,
Thence is her mercy and her love of peace;
Thence is her power, her sceptre uncontrol'd,
To bend the stubborn, and repress the bold;
Her peaceful arts fierce factions to assuage,
To heal their breaches, and to sooth their rage;
Thence is that happy prudence, which presides
In each design, and every action guides;
Thence is she taught her shining court to grace,
And fix the worthiest in the worthiest place,
To trust at home Godolphin's watchful care,
And send victorious Churchill forth to war.
Arise, ye nations rescu'd by her sword,
Freed from the bondage of a foreign lord,
Arise, and join the heroine to bless,
Behold she sends to save you from distress;
Rich is the royal bounty she bestows,
'Tis plenty, peace, and safety from your foes.
And thou, Iberia! rous'd at length, disdain
To wear enslav'd the Gallic tyrant's chain.
For see! the British genius comes, to cheer
Thy fainting sons, and kindle them to war.
With her own glorious fires their souls she warms,
And bids them burn for liberty and arms.
Unhappy land! the foremost once in fame,
Once lifting to the stars thy noble name,
In arts excelling, and in arms severe,
The western kingdoms' envy, and their fear:
Where is thy pride, thy conscious honour, flown,
Thy ancient valour, and thy first renown?
How art thou sunk among the nations now!
How hast thou taught thy haughty neck to bow,
And dropt the warrior's wreath inglorious from
thy brow!
Not thus of old her valiant fathers bore
The bondage of the unbelieving Moor,
But, oft, alternate, made the victors yield,
And prov'd their might in many a well-fought field,
Bold in defence of liberty they stood,
And doubly dy'd their cross in Moorish blood:
Then in heroic arms their knights excell'd,
The tyrant then and giant then they quell'd.
Then every nobler thought their minds did move,
And those who fought for freedom, sigh'd for love.
Like one, those sacred flames united live,
At once they languish, and at once revive;
Alike they shun the coward and the slave,
But bless the free, the virtuous, and the brave.
Nor frown, ye fair, nor think my verse untrue:
Though we disdain that man should man subdue,
Yet all the free-born race are slaves alike to, you.
Yet, once again that glory to restore,
The Britons scek the Celtiberian shore.
With echoing peals at Anna's high command,
Their naval thunder wakes the drowsy land;
High at their head, Iberia's promis'd lord, [sword;
Young Charles of Austria, waves his shining
His youthful veins with hopes of empire glow,
Swell his bold heart, and urge him on the foe:
With joy he reads, in every warrior's face,
Some happy omen of a sure success;
Then leaps exulting on the hostile strand,
And thinks the destin'd sceptre in his hand.
VOL. IX.
Nor fate denies, what first his wishes name,
Proud Barcelona owns his juster claim,
And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath
With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,
Bnt soon the equal of his youthful years, [bestows.
Philip of Bourbon's haughty line appears;
Like hopes attend his birth, like glories grace,
(If glory can be in a tyrant's race)
In numbers proud, he threats no more from far,
But nearer draws the black impending war;
He views his host, then scorns the rebel town,
And dooms to certain death the rival of his crown.
Now fame and empire, all the nobler spoils
That urge the hero, and reward his toils,
Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage,
And fire their breasts with more than mortal rage.
Not lawless love, nor vengeance, nor despair,
So daring, fierce, untam'd, and furious are,
As when ambition prompts the great to war;
As youthful kings, when, striving for renown,
They prove their might in arms, and combat for
Hard was the cruel strife, and doubtful long
Betwixt the chiefs suspended conquest hung;
Till, forc'd at length, disdaining much to yield,
Charles to his rival quits the fatal field.
Numbers and fortune o'er his right prevail,
And e'en the British valour seems to fail;
And yet they fail'd not all. In that extreme,
Conscious of virtue, liberty and fame,
They vow the youthful monarch's fate to share,
Above distress, unconquer'd by despair,
Still to defend the town and animate the war.
But, lo! when every better hope was past,
When every day of danger seem'd their last,
Far on the distant ocean, they survey,
Where a proud navy plows its watery way.
Nor long they doubted, but with joy descry,
The British cross and Belgie lion fly.
Upon the chief's tall top-masts waving high,
Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear
Their cries of ecstasy, and rend the air;
In peals on peals the shouts triumphant rise,
While, from below, old Ocean groans profound,
Spread swift, and rattle through the spacious skies;
The walls, the rocks, the shores repel the sound,
Ring with the deafening shock, and thunder all
around.
Such was the joy the Trojan youth express'd,
Who, by the fierce Rutilan's siege distress'd,
Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas'd;
When young Ascanius, then in arms first try'd,
Numbers and every other want supply'd,
And haughty Turnus from his walls defy'd:
Sav'd in the town an empire yet to come,,
And fix'd the fate of bis imperial Rome.
Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel!
But oh! what verse, what numbers shall reveal
Who shall retreating Philip's shame inpart,
And tell the anguish of his labouring heart!
What paint, whatspeaking pencil shall express
Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,[curse.
The blended passions striving in his face!
With thoughts of glory past, the losers greatest
Fatal Ambition say what wondrous charms
Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms!
When all thy spoils, thy wreaths in battle won,
The pride of power, and glory of a crown,
When all war gives, when all the great can gain,,
E'en thy whole pleasure, pays not half the pain.
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