reader for a better performance of translation, than might have been attained by his own reflections. He that can abstract his mind from the elegance of the poetry, and confine it to the sense of the precepts, will find no other direction, than that the author should be suitable to the translator's genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he who intends to translate him should endeavour to understand him; that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual and uncouth names sparingly inserted; and that the style of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These are the rules that are celebrated as so definite and important; and for the delivery of which to mankind so much honour has been paid. Roscommon has indeed deserved his praises, had they been given with discernment, and bestowed not on the rules themselves, but the art with which they are introduced, and the decorations with which they are adorned. The Essay, though generally excellent, is not without its faults. The story of the Quack, borrowed from Boileau, was not worth the importation; he has confounded the British and Saxon mythology: I grant, that from some mossy idol oak, In double rhymes, our Thor and Woden spoke. The oak, as I think Gildon has observed, belonged to the British druids, and Thor and Woden were Saxon deities. Of the "double rhymes," which he so liberally supposes, he certainly had no knowledge. His interposition of a long paragraph of blank verses is unwarrantably licentious. Latin poets might as well have introduced a series of iambics among their heroics. His next work is the translation of the Art of Poetry; which has received, in my opinion, not less praise than it deserves. Blank verse, left merely to its numbers, has little operation either on the ear or mind: it can hardly support itself without bold figures and striking images. A poem frigidly didactic, without rhyme, is so near to prose, that the reader only scorns it for pretending to be verse. Having disentangled himself from the difficulties of rhyme, he may justly be expected to give the sense of Horace with great exactness, and to suppress no subtilty of sentiment for the difficulty of expressing it. This demand, however, his translation will not satisfy; what he found obscure, I do not know that he has ever cleared. Among his smaller works, the Eclogue of Virgil and the Dies Iræ are well translated; though the best line in the Dies Ira is borrowed from Dryden. In return, succeeding poets have borrowed from Roscommon. In the verses on the Lapdog, the pronouns thou and you are offensively confounded; and the turn at the end is from Waller. His versions of the two odes of Horace are made with great liberty, which is not recompensed by much elegance or vigour. His political verses are sprightly, and when they were written must have been very popular. Of the scene of Guarini, and the prologue of Pompey, Mrs. Philips, in her letters to sir Charles Cotterel, has given the history. "Lord Roscommon," says she," is certainly one of the most promising young noblemen in Ireland. He has paraphrased a Psalm admirably; and a scene of Pastor Fido very finely, in some places much better than sir Richard Fanshaw. This was un dertaken merely in compliment to me, who happened to say, that it was the best scene in Italian, and the worst in English. He was only two hours about it. It begins thus: Dear happy groves, and you the dark retreat Of silent Horrour, Rest's eternal seat. From these lines, which are since somewhat mended, it appears, that he did not think a work of two hours fit to endure the eye of criticism without revisal. When Mrs. Philips was in Ireland, some ladies that had seen her translation of Pompey resolved to bring it on the stage at Dublin; and, to promote their design, lord Roscommon gave them a prologue, and sir Edward Dering an epilogue; "which," says she, "are the best performances of those kinds I ever saw." If this is not criticism, it is at least gratitude. The thought of bringing Cæsar and Pompey into Ireland, the only country over which Cæsar never had any power, is lucky. Of Roscommon's works the judgment of the public seems to be right. He is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous; and his rhymes are remarkably exact. He improved taste, if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors to English literature 3. 3 This Life was originally written by Dr. Johnson in the Gentleman's Magazine for May 1748. It then had notes, which are now incorporated with the text. C. POEMS OF THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON. HA AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE. Have learn'd to use your arms before you fight. For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more [hearse, Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the land; 'John Sheffield duke of Buckinghamshire. But now, we show 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 shows 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 language's 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, Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages I speak my private, but impartial sense, With freedom, and, I hope, without offence; For I'll recant, when France can show me wit, As strong as ours, and as succinctly writ. 'Tis true, composing is the nobler part, But good translation is no easy art. [shine. For though materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound; 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 pedantic weeds. Apollo starts, and all Parnassus shakes, 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 yourself may to yourself be true: No mask, no tricks, no favour, no reserve; Dissect your mind, examine every nerve. Whoever vainly on his strength depends, Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius ends. That wretch (in spite of his forgotten rhymes) Condemn'd to live to all succeeding times, With pompous nonsense and a bellowing sourd Sung lofty Ilium, tumbling to the ground. And (if my Muse can through past ages see) That noisy, nauseous, gaping fool was he; Exploded, when, with universal scorn, The mountains labour'd and a mouse was born. “Learn, learn," Crotona's brawny wrestler cries, "Audacious mortals, and be timely wise! "Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedg'd in that timber, which he strove to rend." Each poet with a different talent writes, One praises, one instructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays, Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And which the ruling passion of your mind; Then, seek a poet who your way does bend, And choose an author as you choose a friend. United by this sympathetic bond, You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; [agree, Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls No longer his interpreter, but he. With how much ease is a young Muse betray'd! Will be the deepest, and should be the best. Take then a subject proper to expound : Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good, For who, without a qualm, hath ever look'd On sure foundations let your fabric rise, [came; But few, oh! few souls, preordained by Fate, By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the [Muse! Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright, And some, that Rome admir'd in Cæsar's time, And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. a Hor. 3. Od. vi. Th' Enean Muse, when she appears in state, As being most harmonious and most known: And turn your veering heart with every gale, A quack (too scandalously mean to name) Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame: As if Lucina had forgot her trade, The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. Well-season'd bowls the gossip's spirits raise, Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. But what a thoughtless animal is man! (How very active in his own trepan!) For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, From female mellow praise he takes degrees; Struts in a new unlicens'd gown, and then From saving women falls to killing men. Another such had left the nation thin, In spite of all the children he brought in. His pills as thick as hand-granadoes flew; And where they fell, as certainly they slew; His name struck every where as great a damp, As Archimedes through the Roman camp. With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; For smarting soundly may convince a fool. But now repentance came too late for grace; And meagre Famine star'd him in the face: Fain would he to the wives be reconcil'd, But found no husband left to own a child. The friends, that got the brats, were poison'd too; In this sad case, what could our vermin do? Worry'd with debts, and past all hope of bail, Th' unpity'd wretch lies rotting in a jail: And there with basket-alms, scarce kept alive, Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen; Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs, Who to your country owe your swords and cares, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For rich ill poets are without excuse. 'Tis very dangerous tampering with a Muse, The profit's small, and you have much to lose; For though true wit adorns your birth or place, Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race. No poet any passion can excite, Have you been led through the Cumaan cave, But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, While he, with eager force, urg'd his impetuous way. The privilege that ancient poets claim, Absurd expressions, crude, abortive thoughts, The delicacy of the nicest ear A skilful ear in numbers should preside, But what they feel transport them when they write. And, when they fail, portend approaching Fate. |