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Nor painted Horror, Grief, or Rage,
GENIUS. the same
HOU Child of Nature, Genius strong,
Thou Master of the Poet's Song,
Where Fancy, bright aërial Maid !
The sweetly-warbling Shakespeare bore ;
And dipt him in that sacred Rill, Whose silver Streams flow musical along, Where Phoebus' hallow'd Mount resounds with raptur'd Song.
II. Forfake not Thou the vocal Choir, Their Breasts revisit with thy genial Fire, Else vain the studied Sounds of mimic Art, Tickle the Ear, but come not nigh the Heart. Vain every Phrase in curious Order set, On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] Epithet. Vain the quick Rime still tinckling in the Close, While pure Description fhines in measur'd Profe. Thou bear'ít a-loof, and look'st with high Disdain,
Upon the dull mechanic Train; Whose nerveless Strains flag on in languid Tone, Lifeless and lumpiíh as the Bag-pipe's drowzy Drone.
Kills with her melancholy Shade,
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd,
Wreath of richest Poesie.
No more she twists her Branches round,
Whose sober Rimes in even Tenour flow; Who prey on Words, and all their Flowrets cull, Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why sleep the Sons of Genius now?
And thou, blest Bard! around whose facred Great Pindar's delegated Wreath is hung; [Brow,
Arise, and snatch the Majesty of Song, From Dullness' servile Tribe, and Arts unhallow'd
* By Taste, is here meant the modern Affectation of it.
The fpiriced and truly poetical Dr. Akenfide.
Р О Е M.
UCH is our Pride, our Folly, or our Fate,
In the fair Field th' vet'ran Armies stand, A firm, unconquer'd, formidable Band, When lo! Translation comes and levels all; 15 By vulgar Hands the bravest Heroes fall. On Eagle's Wings fee lofty Pindar soar ; Cowley attacks, and Pindar is no more.
LINE 18. Cowley attacks, &c. Nothing can be more contemptible than the Translations and Imitations of Pindar done by Cowley, which yet have had their Admirers.
O'er Tibur's Swan the Muses wept in vain,
In blest Arabia's Plains unfading blow
30 The modern Critic, whose unletter'd Pride, Big with itself, contemns the World beside, If haply told that : erence once could charm, Each feeling Heart that Sophocles cou'd warm, Scours ev'ry Stall for Eachard's dirty Page, Or pores in Adams for th’ Athenian Stage ; With Joy he reads the servile Mimics o'er, Pleas'd to discover what he guess’d before ;
Line 20. See Horace's Epistles, Satires, and Art of Poetry, done into English by S. Dunster, D. D. Prebendary of Sarum.
LINE 21, 22. See their Translations of Homer and Virgil.
LINE 31. The modern Critic, &c. Les belles traductions (says Boileau) font des preuves fans replique en faveur des anciens, qu'on leur donne les Racines pout interpretes, & ils scauront plaire aujourdhui comme autrefois. Certain it is, that the Contempt, in which the Ancients are held by the illiterate Wits of the present Age, is in a great Measure owing to the Number of bad Translations.
LINE 36. See Adams's Profe Translation of sophocles,