WENTWORTH DILLON

EARL OF ROSCOMMON

AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE

1684

HAPPY 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,
5 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

IO To the few Vertus 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 Oar?
The noblest Fruits, Transplanted, in our Isle
15 With early Hope and fragrant Blossoms smile.
Familiar Ovid tender thoughts inspires,

And Nature seconds all his soft Desires;
Theocritus do's now to Vs belong,

And Albion's Rocks repeat his Rural Song.
20 Who has not heard how Italy was blest,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy East?
Or Gallus Song, so tender, and so true,
As evn Lycoris might with pity view!

When Mourning Nymphs attend their Daphni's Herse,

Who do's not Weep that Reads the moving Verse?
But hear, oh hear, in what exalted streins
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 forreign Toils,
There, cultivated by a Royal Hand,

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 gen'rous Emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
But now We shew 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 shews 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 Languages 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,

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Drawn to French Wire, would thro' whole Pages shine. 30

I speak my private but impartial sense,

With Freedom, and (I hope) without offence;

For I'le Recant, when France can shew me Wit,

As strong as Ours, and as succinctly Writ

'Tis true, Composing is the Nobler Part, But good Translation is no easie Art; For tho Materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy and your Hands are bound; 5 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 Pedantick Weeds. Apollo starts, and all Parnassus shakes, 10 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 your self may to your self be True: 15 No Masque, no Tricks, no Favour, no Reserve; Dissect your Mind, examine ev'ry Nerve. Whoever Vainly on his strength depends, Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius Ends: That wretch, in spight of his forgotten Rhymes, 20 Condemn'd to Live to all succeeding Times, With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing sound Sung lofty Ilium Tumbling to the Ground. And, if my Muse can through past Ages see, That Noisy, Nauseous, Gaping Fool was He; 25 Exploded, when, with universal scorn,

The Mountains Labour'd and a Mouse was Born.

Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler cryes, Audacious Mortals, and be Timely Wise! 'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,

30 Wedgd in that Timber which he strove to Rend.

Each Poet with a different Talent writes,
One Praises, One Instructs, Another Bites :

!

Horace did ne're aspire to Epick Bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyrick Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the Ruling Passion of your Mind;
Then seek a Poet who your way do's bend,
And chuse an Author as you chuse a Friend:
United by this Sympathetick Bond,

You grow Familiar, Intimate, and Fond;

Your thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your Souls agree, 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 chast Instruction of her Tender Years.
The first Impression in her Infant Breast
Will be the deepest and should be the best.
Let no 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 mod'rate Fop would rake the Park or Stews,
Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may chuse ?
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 wou'd some Painter, busie in a Street,
To copy Bulls and Bears, and ev'ry Sign
That calls the staring Sots to nasty Wine.

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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)
5 With nauseous Images my Fancy fills,
And all goes down like Oxymel of Squils.
Instruct the list'ning world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects and of lofty Things:
These will such true, such bright Idea's raise,
10 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 lookt
On Holy Garbage, tho by Homer Cookt,

15 Whose Rayling Hero's 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,
20 And whom They like Implicitely Admires.

On sure Foundations let your Fabrick Rise,
And with attractive Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meritricious Arts,

But strict harmonious Symetry of Parts,

25 Which through the Whole insensibly must pass, With vital Heat to animate the Mass,

A pure, an Active, an Auspicious flame,

And bright as Heav'n from whence the Blessing came. But few, oh few Souls, præordain'd by Fate,

30 The Race of Gods have reach'd that envy'd Height; No Rebel-Titan's sacrilegious Crime,

By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.

The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd

Eneas entrance, till he knew his Guid;