1

Nor painted Horror, Grief, or Rage,
From Models of a former Age ;
The bright Original he took,
And tore the Leaf from Nature's Book.
'Tis Shakespeare, thus who stands alone
Why need I tell what you have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The Feelings of our Hearts must tell.

ODE

ODE

TO

GENIUS. the same

By the

I.

HOU Child of Nature, Genius strong,

Thou Master of the Poet's Song,
Betore whose Light, Art's dim and feeble Ray
Gleams like the Taper in the Blaze of Day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret Shade,

Where Fancy, bright aërial Maid !
Awaits thee with her thousand Charms,
And revels in thy wanton Arms.
She to thy Bed, in Days of Yore,

The sweetly-warbling Shakespeare bore ;
Whom every Muse endow'd with every Skill,

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.

III. No

III.
No longer now thy Altars blaze,
No Poet offers up his Lays;
Inspir’d with Energy divine,
To worship at thy sacred Sbrine.
Since TASTE * with absolute Domain,
Extending wide her leaden Reign,

Kills with her melancholy Shade,
The blooming Scyons of fair Fancy's Tree;

Which erst full wantonly have stray'd,
In
many a

Wreath of richest Poesie.
For when the Oak'denies her Stay,
The creeping Ivy winds her humble Way;

No more she twists her Branches round,
But drags her feeble Stem along the barren Ground.

IV.
Where then shall exil'd Genius go?
Since only those the Laurel claim,
And boast them of the Poet's Name,

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?
Why Wartons rests the Lyre unstrung?

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

Throng.

* By Taste, is here meant the modern Affectation of it.

The fpiriced and truly poetical Dr. Akenfide.

TRA N.

TRANSLATION;

A

Р О Е M.
By the Revd Jo Thomas Francklin.-
ST

UCH is our Pride, our Folly, or our Fate,
That few, but such who cannot write, trant-

late.'
So Denham sung, who well the Labour knew ;
And an Age past has left the Maxim true.
Wit as of old, a proud imperious Lord,

5
Disdains the Plenty of another's Board ;
And haughty Genius seeks, like Philip's Son,
Paths never trod before, and Worlds unknown.
Unaw'd by these, whilst Hands impure dispense
The sacred Streains of ancient Eloquence,
Pedants assume the Task for Scholars fit,
And Blockheads rise Interpreters of Wit.

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.

IO

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,
And mourn’d their Bard by cruel Dunster flain. 20
By Ogilby and Irap great Maro fell,
And Homer dy'd by Chapman and Ozell.

In blest Arabia's Plains unfading blow
Flow’rs ever fragant, Fruits immortal grow.
To Northern Climes th’unwilling Guests convey, 25,
The Fruit shall wither, and the Flow'r decay;
Ev’n so when here the Sweets of Athens come,
Or the fair Produce of imperial Rome,
They pine and ficken in th' unfriendly Shade,
Their Roses droop, and all their Laurels fade.

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 ;

35

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,

Concludes