EPISTLE THE FIFTH.

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THE blast of common censure could I fear,
Before your play my name should not appear;
For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,
I pay the bribe I first received from you;
That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
And play the game into each other's hand;
And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,
As Bessus and the brothers of the sword.*
Such libels private men may well endure,
When states and kings themselves are not secure; 10
For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;
Then, envy had not suffered me to write;
For, since I could not ignorance pretend,
Such merit I must envy or commend.

* Our author alludes to the copy of verses addressed to him by Lee, on his drama called "The State of Innocence," and which the reader will find in vol. v. p. 109. Dryden expresses some apprehension lest his friend and he should be considered as vouching for each other's genius, in the same manner that Bessus and the two swordsmen, in "King and No King," grant certificates of each other's courage, after having been all soundly beaten and kicked by Bacurius :"2 Swordsman. Captain, we must request your hand now to our honours.

:-

"Bessus. Yes, marry shall ye; and then let all the world come, we are valiant to ourselves, and there's an end." -Act V.

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So many candidates there stand for wit,
A place at court is scarce so hard to get:
In vain they crowd each other at the door;
For e'en reversions are all begged before:
Desert, how known soe'er, is long delayed,
And then, too, fools and knaves are better paid.
Yet, as some actions bear so great a name,
That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame;
So has the mighty merit of your play
Extorted praise, and forced itself a way.
"Tis here as 'tis at sea; who furthest goes,
Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.
Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest,
It shoots too fast, and high, to be opprest; *
As his heroic worth struck envy dumb,
Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.t
Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,
That 'tis no longer feigned, 'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart.

* [First edition "opprest;" second "exprest;" Scott "supprest."-ED.]

+ The person thus distinguished seems to be the gallant Sir Edward Spragge, noted for his gallantry in the two Dutch wars, and finally killed in the great battle of 11th August 1672. In 1671 he was sent to the Mediterranean with a squadron to chastise the Algerines. He found seven vessels belonging to these pirates lying in the Bay of Bugia, covered by the fire of a castle and forts, and defended by a boom, drawn across the entrance of the bay, made of yards, topmasts, and cables, buoyed up by casks. Nevertheless Sir Edward bore into the bay, silenced the forts, and, having broken the boom with his pinnaces, sent in a fire-ship, which effectually destroyed the Algerine squadron, a blow which was long remembered by these piratical states. [Christie objects to this that Dutchmen were not Algerines: but the objection does not apply to Scott's explanation of "cut the boom," and the two exploits need not have been simultaneous. -ED.]

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Always you warm; and if the rising year,
As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,
"Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all
phlegm.

Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones, who praise, while they

accuse,

The too much vigour of your youthful muse.
That humble style, which they your virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allowed
By all, but some vile poets of the crowd.
But how should any sign-post dauber know
The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?
Hard features every bungler can command;
To draw true beauty, shows a master's hand.

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45

50

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

TO THE

EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS EXCELLENT ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

THE Earl of Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse," a work which abounds with much excellent criticism, expressed in correct, succinct, and manly language, was first published in 4to in 1680; a second edition, corrected and enlarged, appeared in 1684. To both editions are prefixed the following copy of verses by our author; and to the second there is also one in Latin by his son Charles Dryden, afterwards translated by Mr. Needler.

The high applause which our author has here and elsewhere bestowed on the "Essay on Translated Verse," is censured by Dr. Johnson as unmerited and exaggerated. But, while something is allowed for the partiality of a friend and the zeal of a panegyrist, it must also be remembered that the rules of criticism, now so well known as to be even trite and hackneyed, were then almost new to the literary world, and that translation was but then beginning to be emancipated from the fetters of verbal and literal versions. But Johnson elsewhere does Roscommon more justice, where he acknowledges that "he improved taste, if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors of English literature."

Dryden has testified, in several places of his works, that he loved and honoured Roscommon; particularly by inscribing and applying to him his version of the Third Ode of the First Book of Horace.† Roscommon repaid these favours by a copy of verses addressed to Dryden on the " Religio Laici."‡ [The date of the first edition of Roscommon is also given as 1684. I have not seen one of 1680.—ED.]

See vol. xii.

+ Ibid.

Vol. x. p. 34.

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

WHETHER the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,
The seeds of arts and infant science bore,
'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first,
Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nurst.
The Grecians added verse; their tuneful tongue 5
Made nature first, and nature's God their song.
Nor stopt translation here; for conquering Rome,
With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers
home;

Enriched by those Athenian muses more,

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Than all the vanquished 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 limped 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 polished page
Restored a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch followed, 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 surpassed.

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