TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ON HIS EXCELLENT ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian sh.o.r.e, The seeds of arts and infant science bore, 'Tis sure the n.o.ble plant, translated first, Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nursed.

The Grecians added verse: their tuneful tongue Made Nature first, and Nature's G.o.d their song.

Nor stopp'd translation here: for conquering Rome, With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home; Enrich'd by those Athenian Muses more, Than all the vanquish'd world could yield before. 10 Till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times, Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes: Those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose, That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.

But Italy, reviving from the trance Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance, With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words, And all the graces a good ear affords, Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polish'd page Restored a silver, not a golden age. 20 Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see What rhyme improved in all its height can be: At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity.

The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last, In manly sweetness all the rest surpa.s.s'd.

The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome, Appear exalted in the British loom: The Muses' empire is restored again, In Charles' reign, and by Roscommon's pen.

Yet modestly he does his work survey, 30 And calls a finish'd Poem an Essay; For all the needful rules are scatter'd here; Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; So well is art disguised, for nature to appear.

Nor need those rules to give translation light: His own example is a flame so bright, That he who but arrives to copy well Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.

Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain, Or his own Virgil sing a n.o.bler strain. 40 How much in him may rising Ireland boast-- How much in gaining him has Britain lost!

Their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd; The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed.

'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow, Derived from British channels long ago, That here his conquering ancestors were nursed; And Ireland but translated England first: By this reprisal we regain our right, Else must the two contending nations fight; 50 A n.o.bler quarrel for his native earth, Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.

To what perfection will our tongue arrive, How will invention and translation thrive, When authors n.o.bly born will bear their part, And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!

Great generals thus, descending from command, With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand.

How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear His fame augmented by an English peer;[14] 60 How he embellishes his Helen's loves, Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves; When these translate, and teach translators too, Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow, Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand.

Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand, Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand.

Roscommon, whom both court and camps commend, True to his prince, and faithful to his friend; Roscommon first in fields of honour known, 70 First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; Who both Minervas justly makes his own.

Now let the few beloved by Jove, and they Whom infused t.i.tan form'd of better clay, On equal terms with ancient wit engage, Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page: Our English palace opens wide in state; And without stooping they may pa.s.s the gate.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: 'An English peer:' the Earl of Mulgrave.]

EPISTLE VI.

TO THE d.u.c.h.eSS OF YORK, ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND IN THE YEAR 1682.

When factious rage to cruel exile drove The queen of beauty,[15] and the court of love, The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts, And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts: Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd, Love was no more, when loyalty was gone, The great supporter of his awful throne.

Love could no longer after beauty stay, But wander'd northward to the verge of day, 10 As if the sun and he had lost their way.

But now the ill.u.s.trious nymph, return'd again, Brings every grace triumphant in her train.

The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm, Foreflow'd her pa.s.sage, to behold her form: Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis, pa.s.s'd; But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.

Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride; And Envy did but look on her, and died.

Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, 20 Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.

Three gloomy years against this day were set, But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt: Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine past, the plenty still to come.

For her the weeping heavens become serene; For her the ground is clad in cheerful green: For her the nightingales are taught to sing, And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.

The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays; 30 And Love, restored his ancient realm surveys, Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays; His waste dominions peoples once again, And from her presence dates his second reign.

But awful charms on her fair forehead sit, Dispensing what she never will admit: Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam, The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.

Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate, No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State: 40 No more shall Faction civil discords move, Or only discords of too tender love: Discord, like that of music's various parts; Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts; Discord, that only this dispute shall bring, Who best should love the Duke, and serve the King.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 15: 'Queen of beauty:' Mary D'Este, the beautiful second wife of the Duke of York; she had been banished to Scotland.]

EPISTLE VII.

A LETTER TO SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.[16]

To you who live in chill degree, As map informs, of fifty-three, And do not much for cold atone, By bringing thither fifty-one, Methinks all climes should be alike, From tropic e'en to pole arctique; Since you have such a const.i.tution As nowhere suffers diminution.

You can be old in grave debate, And young in love-affairs of state; 10 And both to wives and husbands show The vigour of a plenipo.

Like mighty missioner you come "Ad Partes Infidelium."

A work of wondrous merit sure, So far to go, so much t' endure; And all to preach to German dame, Where sound of Cupid never came.

Less had you done, had you been sent As far as Drake or Pinto went, 20 For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a, Or even for oranges to China.

That had indeed been charity; Where love-sick ladies helpless lie, Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.

But you have made your zeal appear Within the circle of the Bear.

What region of the earth's so dull That is not of your labours full?

Triptolemus (so sung the Nine) 30 Strew'd plenty from his cart divine, But spite of all these fable-makers, He never sow'd on Almain acres: No; that was left by Fate's decree, To be perform'd and sung by thee.

Thou break'st through forms with as much ease As the French king through articles.

In grand affairs thy days are spent, In waging weighty compliment, With such as monarchs represent. 40 They, whom such vast fatigues attend, Want some soft minutes to unbend, To show the world that now and then Great ministers are mortal men.

Then Rhenish rammers walk the round; In b.u.mpers every king is crown'd; Besides three holy mitred Hectors, And the whole college of Electors, No health of potentate is sunk, That pays to make his envoy drunk. 50 These Dutch delights I mention'd last Suit not, I know, your English taste: For wine to leave a wh.o.r.e or play Was ne'er your Excellency's way.

Nor need this t.i.tle give offence, For here you were your Excellence, For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping, His Excellence for all but sleeping.

Now if you tope in form, and treat, 'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, 60 The fine you pay for being great.

Nay, here's a harder imposition, Which is indeed the court's pet.i.tion, That setting worldly pomp aside, Which poet has at font denied, You would be pleased in humble way To write a trifle call'd a play.

This truly is a degradation, But would oblige the crown and nation Next to your wise negotiation. 70 If you pretend, as well you may, Your high degree, your friends will say, The Duke St Aignon made a play.

If Gallic wit convince you scarce, His Grace of Bucks has made a farce, And you, whose comic wit is terse all, Can hardly fall below rehearsal.

Then finish what you have began; But scribble faster, if you can: For yet no George, to our discerning, 80 Has writ without a ten years' warning.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: Written to Etherege, then at Ratisbon, in reply to one from Sir George to the Earl of Middleton, at the Earl's request.]

EPISTLE VIII.

TO MR SOUTHERNE, ON HIS COMEDY CALLED "THE WIVES' EXCUSE."

Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain To write, while these malignant planets reign.

Some very foolish influence rules the pit, Not always kind to sense, or just to wit: And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed To make us laugh; for never was more need.