TO THE

EARL of ROSCOMMON; Occafion'd by his Effay on Tranflated Verfe.

From the Latin of Mr. Charles Dryden.

THAT happy Britain boafts her tuneful Race,
And Laurel Wreaths her peaceful Temples grace,
The Honour and the Praise is justly due,
To You alone, Illustrious Earl! to You.
For foon as Horace with his artful Page,
By Thee explain'd, had taught the lift'ning Age;
Of brightest Bards arofe a skilful Train,
Who fweetly fung in their Immortal Strain.
No more content great Maro's Steps to trace,
New Paths we fearch, and tread unbeaten Ways.
Ye Britons then triumphantly rejoice;
And with loud Peals and one confenting Voice,
Applaud the Man, who does unrivall'd fit,
The Sov'reign-Judge and Arbiter of Wit!

For, led by Thee, an endless Train shall rife
Of Poets who fhall climb Superior Skies;
Heroes and Gods in Worthy Verfe fhall fing,
And tune to Homer's Lay the lofty String.

Thy Works too, Sov'reign Bard! if right I fee,
They shall tranflate with Equal Majefty;
While with new Joy, thy happy Shade shall rove
Thro' the bleft Mazes of th' Elysian Grove,

Virgile

And

And wond'ring, in Britannia's rougher Tongue
To find thy Heroes and thy Shepherds fung,

i Shall break forth in these Words: " Thy favour'd Name,
"Great Heir and Guardian of the Mantuan Fame!
"How shall my willing Gratitude pursue
"With Praises large as to thy Worth are due?
"Tho' tasteless Bards, by Nature never taught,
"In wretched Rhymes difguife my genuine Thought;
"Tho' Homer now the Wars of Godlike Kings,
"In Ovid's foft enervate Numbers fings;
"Tuneful Silenus, and the Matchlefs Verfe
"That does the Birth of Infant Worlds rehearse,
"Atones for All: By that, my refcu'd Fame
"Shall vie in Age with Nature's deathless Frame;
By Thee the learned Song fhall nobly live,

"And Praise from ev'ry British Tongue receive.

"Give to thy daring Genius then the Rein, "And freely launch into a bolder Strain, "Nor with these Words my happy Spirit grieve; * The laft good Office of thy Friend receive.

"On the firm Base of thine Immortal Lays, "A nobler Pile to thy lov'd Maro raise; "My Glory by thy Skill fhall brighter fhine, "With Native Charms and Energy Divine!

Britain with juft Applaufe the Work fhall read, "And crown with fadeless Bays thy Sacred Head. "Nor fhall thy Mufe the Graver's Pencil need, "To draw the Heroe on his prancing Steed; "Thy living Verfe fhall paint th' imbattled Hoast, In bolder Figures than his Art can boast,

* Cape dona extrema tuorum; The Motto to the Lord Rof common's Essay.

While the low Tribe of Vulgar Writers strive, By mean falfe Arts to make their Verfions live, "Forfake the Text, and blend each Sterling Line, "With Comments foreign to my true Design; My latent Senfe thy happier Thought explores, "And injur'd Mare to himself restores.

OF THE

SEASONS proper for ANGLING.

TH

'HE Months, o'er which the nearer Sun displays
His warmer Influence and directer Rays,

Are most Propitious to the Angler's Toil,
And crown his Labours with the largest Spoil.

When Birds begin in brisker Notes to fing,
And hail with chearful Voice returning Spring;
When Western Winds in tepid Breezes fly,
And brush with downy Wing the brighten'd Sky;
When teeming Buds their verd'rous Iffue yield,
And with their tender Offspring grace the Field;
Then let the Angler, with induftrious Care,
His guileful Arms and Implements prepare,
Break Winter's Truce, and wage the watry War

But, when Autumnal Blasts have strip'd the Wood,
And o'er the Ground its yellow Honours ftrew'd;
When ftormy Boreas reaffumes his Reign,
And with malignant Breath deforms the Plain,
Let him a while his Snary Wiles forbear;
Till, by the Course of the revolving Year,

The fairer Order of the Months returns,

And Nature with fresh Bloom her Face adorns.

Then, foon as Morn has chas'd the Shades of Night,
And streak'd the purple Eaft with rofie Light;
Soon as the Lark difplays her early Wings,
And to the fragrant Air her Matins fings,
The Angler, chearful with the Hopes of Prey,
Takes to the reeking Brook his dewy Way.

PSALM XCII. Paraphras'd.

Great Sov'reign of the World, thy glorious Name

And boundless Praife, I ever will proclaim.
Whether the Morn with rifing Light invest,
Or Night with fable Shades o'erfpread the Eatt';
The smiling Morn thy bounteous Love (hall hear,
And lift'ning Night thy constant Truth revere:
The Lute and Harp all join my willing Voice,
And the loud Cymbal add its tuneful Noife.
Whilst in my Mind thy matchlefs Deeds I weigh
And all thy Works in filent Thought furvey,
The pleafing Theme my ravish'd Bofom fires,
And facred Hymns fpontaneously inspires!
Thy Greatness who can tell! or who can trace
The Wisdom of thy providential Wars!
Yet will audacious Man prefume
Thy Conduct, and afperfe thine awful Name.
Like fome green Herb, which on the springing Mead,
By Genial Show'rs refresh'd, uprears its Head,
The Wicked feem awhile; but Vengeance due
Soon quells their Pride, and blafts the guilty Crew:
But Thou art ftill the fame; Thou ne'er canft know
The Changes that affect this World below,
Са

lame

Thing

Thine Enemies, O God! an Impious Band, ⚫
Shall perish foon by thy deftroying Hand.
Mean-while the Righteous, like the goodly Height
Of the fair Palm, fhall flourish to the Sight;
Or like a Cedar, that Majestic grows

On Lebanon, and wide extends its Boughs.
The Tree, that in thy Temple's Courts shall shoot
Deep in the hallow'd Ground its fpreading Root,
Loaded with Fruits, with fadeless Bloffoms gay,
Shall flourish ftill, nor ever know Decay.
With fuch abundant Favour Thou wilt blefs
Those who thy venerable Name confefs,
That all the Nations fhall be forc'd to own
Thy perfect Laws, and worship at thy Throne.

PSALM CXLVI. Paraphras'd.

I.

N pious Hymns and confecrated Lays,

IN

Whilst vital Streams my beating Veins shall swell,
Great Author of the World! thy deathless Praise,
And glorious Deeds, my joyful Tongue shall tell,

II.

Let not thy Heart a fond Affurance place
In any Earthly Monarch's fav'ring Smile;
Nor from the Mortal Aid of Human Race
With Hopes of Lafting Blifs thy Soul beguile.
III.

Soon to their Native Duft return again
The Sons of Men, at Death's Impartial Call;
Then vanish into Air their Counfels vain,
And to the Ground their Empty Projects fall.
Prolas

Thrice