[ 102 ]
Nor does the Mighty Trojan less appear
Than Mars himself amidst the Storms of War.
Now his fierce Eyes with double fury glow,
And a new dread attends th' impending blow:
The Daunian Chiefs their eager rage abate,
And tho' unwounded, seem to feel their Fate.
Long the rude fury of an ignorant Age,
With barbarous spight prophan'd his Sacred Page.
The heavy Dutchmen with laborious toil,
Wrested his Sense, and cramp'd his vigorous Style;
No time, no pains the drudging Pedants spare;
But still his Shoulders must the burthen bear.
While thro' the Mazes of their Comments led,
We learn not what he writes, but what they read.
Yet thro' these Shades of undistinguish'd Night
Appear'd some glimmering intervals of Light;
Till mangled by a vile Translating Sect,
Like Babes by Witches in Effigie rackt:
Till Ogleby, mature in dulness rose,
And Holbourn Dogrel, and low chiming Prose,
His Strength and Beauty did at once depose.
But now the Magick Spell is at an end,
Since even the Dead in you have found a Friend.
You free the Bard from rude Oppressor's Power,
And grace his Verse with Charms unknown before:
He, doubly thus oblig'd, must doubting stand,
Which chiefly should his Gratitude command;
Whether should claim the Tribute of his Heart,
The Patron's Bounty, or the Poet's Art.
Alike with wonder and delight we view'd
The Roman Genius in thy Verse renew'd:
We saw thee raise soft Ovid's Amorous Fire,
And fit the tuneful Horace to thy Lyre:
