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Tis certain, were he now alive with us,
And did revolving Destiny constrain,
To dress his Thoughts in English o'er again,
Himself cou'd write no otherwise than thus.
His old Encomium never did appear
So true as now; Romans and Greeks submit,
Something of late is in our Language writ,
More nobly great than the fam'd Iliads were.
To Mr. Dryden on his Translations.
AS Flow'rs transplanted from a Southern Sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raising dye,
Missing their Native Sun, at best retain
But a faint Odour, and but live with Pain:
So Roman Poetry by Moderns taught,
Wanting the Warmth with which its Author wrote,
Is a dead Image, and a worthless Draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble Spirit flies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dyes.
Who then attempt to shew the Ancients Wit,
Must copy with the Genius that they writ.
Whence we conclude from thy translated Song,
So just, so warm, so smooth, and yet so strong,
Thou Heav'nly Charmer! Soul of Harmony!
That all their Geniusses reviv'd in thee.
Thy Trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to Light,
New-born they rise, and take to Heav'n their Flight;
