Nor painted Horror, Grief, or Rage,
From Models of a former Age;
The bright Original he took,

And tore the Leaf from Nature's Book.
'Tis Shakespeare, thus who ftands alone-
Why need I tell what You have fhown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The Feelings of our Hearts must tell.




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HOU Child of Nature, Genius ftrong,
Thou Mafter of the Poet's Song,
Before whofe Light, Art's dim and feeble Ray
Gleams like the Taper in the Blaze of Day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the fecret Shade,
Where Fancy, bright aërial Maid!
Awaits thee with her thoufand Charms,
And revels in thy wanton Arms.
She to thy Bed, in Days of Yore,
The fweetly-warbling Shakespeare bore;
Whom Mufe endow'd with every Skill,


And dipt him in that facred Rill, Whofe filver Streams flow mufical along, Where Phoebus' hallow'dMount refounds with raptur'd Song.


Forfake not Thou the vocal Choir, Their Breafts revifit with thy genial Fire, Else vain the studied Sounds of mimic Art, Tickle the Ear, but come not nigh the Heart. Vain every Phrase in curious Order set, On each Side leaning on the [ftop-gap] Epithet. Vain the quick Rime ftill tinckling in the Close, While pure Defcription fhines in meafur'd Profe. Thou bear'ft a-loof, and look'ft with high Disdain, Upon the dull mechanic Train ; Whofe nervelefs Strains flag on in languid Tone, Lifelefs and lumpiíh as the Bag-pipe's drowzy Drone. III. No


No longer now thy Altars blaze,
No Poet offers up his Lays;
Infpir'd with Energy divine,
To worship at thy facred Shrine.
Since TASTE with abfolute Domain,
Extending wide her leaden Reign,
Kills with her melancholy Shade,
The blooming Scyons of fair Fancy's Tree;
Which erft full wantonly have ftray'd,

In many a Wreath of richest Poefie.

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For when the Oak denies her Stay, The creeping Ivy winds her humble Way;

No more fhe twifts her Branches round,
But drags her feeble Stem along the barren Ground.

Where then fhall exil'd Genius go?
Since only those the Laurel claim,

And boaft them of the Poet's Name,

Whose fober Rimes in even Tenour flow; Who prey on Words, and all their Flowrets cull, Coldly correct, and regularly dull.

Why fleep the Sons of Genius now?

Why Wartons refts the Lyre unftrung?
And thou, bleft Bard! around whofe facred

Great Pindar's delegated Wreath is hung;


Arife, and fnatch the Majefty of Song, From Dullness' fervile Tribe, and Arts unhallow'd



By TASTE, is here meant the modern Affectation of it.
The fpirited and truly poetical Dr. Akenfide.

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By the Rovd Dr Thomas Francklin.


UCH is our Pride, our Folly, or our Fate,
That few, but fuch who cannot write, tranf-


So Denham fung, who well the Labour knew ;
And an Age paft has left the Maxim true.
Wit as of old, a proud imperious Lord,
Difdains the Plenty of another's Board;
And haughty Genius feeks, like Philip's Son,
Paths never trod before, and Worlds unknown.
Unaw'd by thefe, whilft Hands impure dispense
The facred Streams of ancient Eloquence,
Pedants affume the Tafk for Scholars fit,
And Blockheads rife Interpreters of Wit.
In the fair Field th' vet'ran Armies ftand,
A firm, unconquer'd, formidable Band,
When lo! Tranflation comes and levels all;
By vulgar Hands the braveft Heroes fall.
On Eagle's Wings fee lofty Pindar foar;
Cowley attacks, and Pindar is no more.




LINE 18. Cowley attacks, &c. Nothing can be more contemptible than the Tranflations and Imitations of Pindar done by Cowley, which yet have had their Admirers.

O'er Tibur's Swan the Mufes wept in vain,
And mourn'd their Bard by cruel Dunfter flain.
By Ogilby and Trap great Maro fell,
And Homer dy'd by Chapman and Ozell.
In bleft Arabia's Plains unfading blow
Flow'rs ever fragant, Fruits immortal grow.



To Northern Climes th' unwilling Guests convey, 25.
The Fruit fhall wither, and the Flow'r decay;
Ev'n fo when here the Sweets of Athens come,
Or the fair Produce of imperial Rome,
They pine and ficken in th' unfriendly Shade,
Their Rofes droop, and all their Laurels fade.
The modern Critic, whofe unletter'd Pride,
Big with itself, contemns the World befide,
If haply told that Terence once could charm,
Each feeling Heart that Sophocles cou'd warm,
Scours ev'ry Stall for Eachard's dirty Page,
Or pores in Adams for th' Athenian Stage;
With Joy he reads the fervile Mimics o'er,
Pleas'd to discover what he guefs'd before;


LINE 20. See Horace's Epiftles, Satires, and Art of Poetry, done into English by S. Dunfter, D. D. Prebendary of Sarum.

LINE 21, 22. See their Tranflations of Homer and Virgil.

LINE 31. The modern Critic, &c. Les belles traductions (fays Boileau) font des preuves fans replique en faveur des anciens, qu'on leur donne les Racines pout interpretes, & ils fcauront plaire aujourdhui comme autrefois. Certain it is, that the Contempt, in which the Ancients are held by the illiterate Wits of the prefent Age, is in a great Measure owing to the Number of bad Translations. LINE 36. See Adams's Profe Translation of Sophocles.


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