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His the high deeds of heroes to rehearse,
And bid the great examples live in verse :
His with sublimer spirit to recite
The world first rising from essential night;
And infant deities with acorns fed,
Unarm'd as yet from thund'ring Ætna's bed.
Nor aught avail the melodies of tone
To words unwedded, and the Muse unknown:
'Twas not the harp of Orpheus, but the song
That held the floods, and drew the trees along;
Touch'd the hard breasts of furies with consent;
And made their eyes in stony showers relent.

you affect to scorn the Aönian quire,
Bless'd by their smiles, and glowing with their fire:
You, who, by them inspired, with art profound
Can wield the magic of proportion'd sound:
Through thousand tones can teach the voice to stray,
And wind to harmony its mazy way,
Arion's tuneful heir!-then wonder not
A poet-child should be by you begot.
My kindred soul is warm with kindred flame,
And the son treads the father's track to fame.
Phoebus controlls us with a common sway;
To you his lyre commends, to me his lay:
Whole in each bosom makes his just abode;
And child and parent own the one, though varied God.

Yet that you hate the Muse is but profess'd;
Her secret love is cherish'd in your breast:
Else why not urge my steps, where fortune lies
In the prone path, and vaunts her gaudy prize:
Why not condemn me, with the bar's hoarse throng,
To gather affluence from a nation's wrong:
Why rather seek with intellectual gold
To deck my mind, and to my sight unfold,
Withdrawn in shades from lucre's noisy band,
The beauteous vision of the Aönian land:
Give me through all its bloomy wilds to stray,
The bless'd companion of the God of day?

The full so
Your love,
And glean
To win Ita
The base
And read
Taught by
Nor yet cd
To scan tl
Of air the
And know
Thus brou
You brok!
And offer
The nake

And, if y
Now sho



With mi
Mine w
All that
Say coi
If Jove
Had it
Sent f

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I pass the endearing fatherly caress,
And in the greater kindness lose the less.
When by your bounty, sire, the words, that hung,
In strength and sweetness, on the Latian's tongue,
I now had learn’d; and, what even Jove could speak,
The full sonorous accents of the Greek;
Your love, persuasive, press'd me to advance,
And glean the flowers that strew the


of France:
To win Italia's modern Muse, who shows
The base pollution of barbarian foes;
And read the native strains of hallow'd lore,
Taught by heaven-tutor'd Palestine of yore.
Nor yet content, you


To scan the circling wonders of the sky:
Of air the lucid secrets to reveal,
And know what earth's and ocean's depths conceal.
Thus brought to science, in her inmost seat,
You broke the cloud that veil'd her last retreat;
And offer'd, in her plenitude of charms,
The naked goddess to my youthful arms;
And, if your power had match'd your will to bless, ,
Now should my arms the heavenly fair possess.
Mad worshippers of gold !--and will ye dare
With mine your glittering treasures to compare-
Mine wealth intangible,—and haply your's-
All that the sun in India's lap matures.
Say could a father more than mine have given,
If Jove that father, and reserved his heaven?
Had it been safe, the boon less precious far,
When Hyperion lent his blazing car;
Sent forth his boy in all the god's array,
And crown'd him with intolerable day.
Now deck'd with ivies and inmortal bays,
One, though the meanest of the sons of praise,
High shall I keep the tenor of my state,
O'er the base crowd, and lifted from their fate.
Hence, wakeful cares, and pining sorrows fly!
Hence leering Envy, with thy sidelong eye!

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As much to

And vulg As with bri

The soul There only

Where Los

Slander in vain thy viper-jaws expand!
No harm can touch me from


hateful band;
Alien from you, my breast, in virtue strong, -
Derides the menace of your reptile throng.

Since then, dear sire, my gratitude can find,
For all your gifts, no gifts of equal kind:
Since every prouder wish my powers confine-
Accept for all, this fond recording line:
O! take the love that strives to be express'd!
O! take the thanks that live within


And you, sweet triflings of my youthful state,
If strains, like you, can hope a lasting date:
Unconscious of your mortal master's doom,
If ye maintain the day, nor know the tomb,-
From dark forgetfulness, as time rolls on,

shall snatch the father and the son:
And make them live to teach succeeding days,
How one could merit, and how one could praise.

Ashes reve With wisd

Forgive th

A name, Here, soo And be y Here diad Augustus


note of I poem to

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my corre

Besides the translations, with which my friend, Mr. Wrangham, has gratified the readers of the preceding work, the two following, with which he favoured me, of Milton's seventh sonnet, and of Dr. George's inscription for the great poet's cenotaph in Westminster Abbey, possess too much merit to be withheld from the public.

quest the page 109


tary abil

&c. PL

He was

Deign, Lady, from a guileless doting youth

To accept a heart, which fain its lord would fly,

Of lofty spirit, and worth, and constancy
The abode, and faith inflexible, and truth
By many a test well tried, and melting ruth.
When the red flash flames deathful through the sky,

The bolt that shivers, and the storın that raves,
Self-armd with native adamant it braves :

a mour that by Metal draws twee

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As much to brutal force and envy's bane,

And vulgar fears, and vulgar hopes unknown,
As with bright Genius smit and Delphi's train,

The sounding shell, and valour's high renown:
There only, Lady, throbs its feeling part,
Where Love, stern power, has plunged the immedicable dart.


Ashes revered of kings! and thou blest mold,
With wisdom, valour, virtue warm’d of old!
Forgive that in your hallow'd resting place
A name, once foe to royalty, we trace:
Here, soothed by death, your long resentments wave;
And be your feuds composed within the grave!
Here diadems with freedom blend your rays!-
Augustus throned endures a Cato's praise.

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When I remarked upon an unfortunate note of Mr. Warton's on a passage in the poem to Manso, it has been suggested to me that I ought to have produced the subject of my correction. I will here, therefore, request the reader to revert to the note (') in page 108, and then to read the following specimen of Mr. Warton's critical and literary ability. “Mycalen qui natus ad altum," &c. Plutarch, who wrote the Life of Homer. He was a native of Bæotia, where Mycale is a mountain. It is among those famous hills that blazed in Phaeton's conflagration, Ovid, Metam. ii. 223. The allusion is happy, as it draws with it an implicit comparison between Tasso and Homer. In the epithet fa

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cundus, there is much elegance and propriety. Plutarch is the great master of ancient biography. To insult on prostrate weakness is always pusillanimous; and I feel no inclination “ thrice to slay the slain:" I must observe, however, that the reason, assigned by the commentator for the propriety of “ facundus,” in its application to the rugged and uncouth Plutarch, is more than commonly curious. Would not an illiterate man conclude either that facundus was latin for ancient biography, or that ancient biography was a species of composition altogether distinct from modern, which he knows to be in no way, inseparably and vitally con'nected with eloquence or the beauties of diction. I avail myself of this opportunity to rectify an inaccuracy in Mr. Warton's relation of the shipwreck of Mr. King, the Lycidas of Milton. Mr. W. says (Milton's Juv. Poems, 2d edit. p. 38), “When, in calm weather, not far from the English coast, the ship, a very crazy vessel, a fatal and perfidious bark, struck on a rock, and suddenly sunk to the bottom with all that were on board, not one escaping.A more correct account of this disaster, given by Hog, who in 1694 published a latin translation, or rather pa

veral escape vessel; but fatally unm associates, dious bark, event happ on the 10t|

Shall I Mr. Warto has accide vated into perhaps, ar leaden mi quity; bu row; his

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Milton's Juvenile Poems, p. 539.

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