Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.
The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.
This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.
Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-lived as present love.
TRANSLATION OF HORACE, DE ARTE POETICA, AND OF
THE USE OF POETRY.
ROME was not better by her Horace taught,
Than we are here to comprehend his thought:
The poet writ to noble Piso there ;
A noble Piso does instruct us here;
Gives us a pattern in his flowing style,
And with rich precepts does oblige our isle:
Britain! whose genius is in verse express'd,
Bold and sublime, but negligently dress'd.
Horace will our superfluous branches prune, Give us new rules, and set our harp in tune; Direct us how to back the winged horse, Favour his flight, and moderate his force. Though poets may of inspiration boast, Their rage, ill govern'd, in the clouds is lost. He that proportion'd wonders can disclose, At once his fancy and his judgment shows. Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence, Neglect of which no wit can recompense. The fountain which from Helicon proceeds, That sacred stream! should never water weeds, Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow, Which envy or perverted nature sow.
Well-sounding verses are the charm we use, Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse :
Things of deep sense we may in prose unfold,
But they move more in lofty numbers told.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.
The Muses' friend, unto himself severe,
With silent pity looks on all that err;
But where a brave, a public, action shines,
That he rewards with his immortal lines.
Whether it be in council or in fight,
His country's honour is his chief delight;
Praise of great acts he scatters as a seed
Which may the like in coming ages breed.
Here taught the fate of verses, (always prized
With admiration, or as much despised)
Men will be less indulgent to their faults,
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got,
Could it be known what they discreetly blot,
Finding new words, that to the ravish'd ear
May like the language of the gods appear,
Such as of old, wise bards employ'd, to make
Unpolish'd men their wild retreats forsake:
Law-giving heroes, famed for taming brutes,
And raising cities with their charming lutes :
For rudest minds with harmony were caught,
And civil life was by the Muses taught.
So wandering bees would perish in the air,
Did not a sound, proportion'd to their ear,
Appease their rage, invite them to the hive,
Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive:
To rob the flowers, and to forbear the spoil,
Preserved in winter by their summer's toil;
They give us food which may with nectar vie,
And wax that does the absent sun supply.
FLORIBUS Angligenis non hanc tibi necto corollam,
Cùm satis indigenis te probet ipse Liber :
Per me Roma sciet tibi se debere, quòd Anglo
Romanus didicit cultiùs ore loqui.
Ultima quæ tellus Aquilas duce Cæsare vidit,
Candida Romulidum te duce scripta videt.
Consilio ut quondam Patriam nil juveris, esto!
Sed studio cives ingenioque juvas.
Namque dolis liber hic instructus, et arte Batava, A Belga nobis ut caveamus, ait.
Horremus per te civilis dira furoris
Vulnera; discordes Flandria quassa monet.
Hic discat miles pugnare, orare senator;
Qui regnant, leni sceptra tenere manu.
Macte, Comes! virtute novâ; vestri ordinis ingens
Ornamentum, ævi deliciæque tui !
Dum stertunt alii somno vinoque sepulti,
Nobilis antiquo stemmate digna facis.
DUKE OF MONMOUTH'S EXPEDITION INTO SCOTLAND,
IN THE SUMMER SOLSTICE.
SWIFT as Jove's messenger, (the winged god')
With sword as potent as his charming rod,
He flew to execute the King's command,
And in a moment reach'd that northern land,
Where day contending with approaching night,
Assists the hero with continued light.
On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd,
He might have rush'd; but noble pity held
His hand awhile, and to their choice gave space
Which they would prove, his valour or his grace.
This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke,
And then, like lightning, through that cloud he
broke.
His fame, his conduct, and that martial look,
The guilty Scots with such a terror strook,
That to his courage they resign the field,
Who to his bounty had refused to yield.
Glad that so little loyal blood it cost,
He grieves so many Britons should be lost;
1 Mercury.
Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield,
To save the fliers than to win the field;
And at the Court his interest does employ,
That none, who scaped his fatal sword, should die.
And now these rash bold men their error find,
Not trusting one beyond his promise kind;
One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave,
Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save.
In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell;
Such deeds as these his high extraction tell,
And give a secret joy to him that reigns',
To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins ;
To see a leader whom he got and chose,
Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes.
But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat, With scorching rays, on all that's high and great, This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough The Muses send to shade thy conquering brow. Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze, But time and thunder pay respect to bays. Achilles' arms dazzle our present view, Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new As from the forge of Vulcan first they came; Thousands of years are pass'd, and they the same; Such care she takes to pay desert with fame! Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence, Knows how to give a nobler recompense.
|