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We saw new gall imbitter Juvenal's Pen,
And crabbed Persius made politely plain:
Virgil alone was thought too great a task;
What you could scarce perform, or we durst ask:
A Task! which Waller's Muse could ne'er engage;
A Task! too hard for Denham's stronger rage:
Sure of Success they some slight Sallies try'd,
But the fenc'd Coast their bold attempts defy'd:
With fear their o'er-match'd Forces back they drew,
Quitted the Province Fate reserv'd for you.
In vain thus Philip did the Persians storm;
A Work his Son was destin'd to perform.
O had Roscommon[1] liv'd to hail the day,
And Sing loud Pœans thro' the crowded way;
When you in Roman Majesty appear,
Which none know better, and none come so near:
The happy Author would with wonder see,
His Rules were only Prophecies of thee:
And were he now to give Translators light,
He'd bid them only read thy Work, and write.
For this great Task our loud applause is due;
We own old Favours, but must press for new:
Th' expecting World demands one Labour more;
And thy lov'd Homer does thy aid implore,
To right his injur'd Works, and set them free
From the lewd Rhymes of groveling Ogleby.
Then shall his Verse in graceful Pomp appear,
Nor will his Birth renew the ancient jar;
On those Greek Cities we shall look with scorn,
And in our Britain think the Poet Born.
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- ↑ Essay of Translated Verse, pag. 26.
