An Essay on Translated Verse (Roscommon)/To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse (Amherst)

by J Amherst

For works with similar titles, see To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse.

To the

Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay
on Translated Verse.

 

WHile Satyr pleas'd and nothing else was writ
But pure ill nature pass'd for noblest Wit.
Some priviledg'd Climes the poysonous weeds refuse:
But when a generous understanding Muse
Does richer fruits from happier Soils Translate,
W' are sent to Ireland, by reverse of fate.
Yet you, I know with Plato would disdain
To write and equal the Mæonian strain;

If t'would debauch your humour so far forth
To think so mean a thing, enhanc'd your worth.
For were, that praise and only that your due,
Which Virgil too might claim no less then you,
Tho that had merited my bare esteem,
I'de leave to other pens the single theme.
But when I saw the Candor of your mind,
A Muse inur'd to Camps, in Courts refin'd,
A Soul e'vn capable of being a friend,
Free from those follies which the great attend;
I grant such excellence my Soul did fire,
Unable to commend, I will admire.

 'Happy the man when no concern is nigh,
'But Nature's, wanton and his blood runs high,
'Who free from cares enjoys without controul,
'His Muse, the darling Mistris of his soul,
'No tedious Court his appetite destroys,
'Nor thoughts of gain pollute the rapturous Joys.
'The Dear Minerva's form'd without a pain
'And nothing less, could spring from such a brain.
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$'And yet his Godlike pity he imparts
'To those that drudge at Duty against their hearts
'And to illiberal uses wrest the Liberal Arts———

 When I observe the wonders you explain
Too much the antients you commend ——— in vain
In vain you would endeavour to perswade,
That all our Rites were in those Archives laid:
That Poetry must ever stand unmov'd,
The only Art Experience ha'nt improv'd.
But grant all this were to Religion grown,
Sure they concern no Countrys but their own:
For let the Æneid pass through other hands,
And Virgils self a third-rate Poet stands.
Unfit to reach the heights that he has flown,
We wisely to our level bring him down.
Himself had writ less sweet, and less sublime
In any other tongue or other time.

And now, my Lord, on this account I grieve,
To think how different from your self you'l live.
When this inimitable peice is shown,
In Languages and Empires yet unknown.
 It will be Learning then to know and hear
 Not only what you wrote, but what you were.

J. Amherst.