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Now stern Eneas waves his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear:

"

What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harbour'd in his mind ? 'Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight: Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war: Wish for the wings of wind to mount the sky; Or hid within the hollow Earth to lie."

The champion shook his head, and made this short reply:

"No threats of thine my manly mind can move:
'Tis hostile Heaven I dread; and partial Jove."
He said no more; but, with a sigh, repress'd
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast.
Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around,
An antique stone he saw; the common bound
Of neighbouring fields, and barrier of the ground:
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
Th' enormous weight from earth could hardly raise.
He heav'd it at a lift: and, pois'd on high,
Ran, staggering on, against his enemy.
But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew
His way; or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load;
And shivering cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms; and falling short,
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night:
We seem to run; and destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry:
The nerves unbrac'd their usual strength deny,
And on the tongue the faultering accents die:
So Turnus far'd, whatever means he try'd,
All force of arms, and points of art employ'd,
The fury flew athwart, and made th' endeavour
void.

A thousand various thoughts his soul confound:
He star'd about; nor aid nor issue found:
His own men stop the pass, and his own walls

surround.

Once more he pauses, and looks out again;
And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain.
Trembling, he views the thundering chief advance,
And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:
Amaz'd he cowers beneath his conquering foe,
Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
Astonish'd while he stands, and fixt with fear,
Aim'd at his shield he sees th' impending spear.

The hero measur'd first, with narrow view,
The destin'd mark: and, rising as he threw,
With its full swing the fatal weapon flew.
Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,
Or stones from battering engines break the walls:
Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,
The lance drove on; and bore the death along.
Nought could his seven-fold shield the prince avail,
Nor aught beneath his arms the coat of mail;
It piere'd through all; and, with a grisly wound,
Transfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground.
With greans the Latins rend the vaulted sky:
Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upwards, and with arms display'd; And recreant thus to the proud victor pray'd:

I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live: Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.

Yet think, oh think, if mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a father once, and hadst a son):
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave;
And, for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if they vow'd revenge, pursue my death;
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life;
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife;
Against a yielded man, 'tis mean ignoble strife."

In deep suspence the Trojan seem'd to stand;
And, just appear'd to strike, repress'd his hand.
He roll'd his eyes, and every moment felt
His manly soul with more compassion melt.
When, casting down a casual glance, he spy'd
The golden belt that glitter'd on his side:
The fatal spoils which haughty Turous tore
From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore.
Then, rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries
(Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his

eyes);

"Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful offering go; 'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.» He rais'd his arm aloft; and at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distain'd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

POSTCRIPT.

WHAT Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to trans late in my declining years: struggling with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I write, and my judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my endeavours, overcome all difficulties; and, in some measure, acquitted myself of the debt which I owed the public, when I undertook this work. In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknow ledge to the Almighty Power, the assistance he has given me in the beginning, the prosecution, and conclusion of my present studies, which are more happily performed, than I could have promised to myself, when I laboured under such discouragements. For what I have done, imperfect as it is, for want of health and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after-ages, and possibly in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country; whose language and poetry would be more esteemed abroad, if they were better understood. Somewhat (give me leave to say) I have added to both of them, in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers, which were wanting, especially the last, in all our poets, even in those who, being endued with genius, yet have not cultivated their mother-tongue with sufficient care; or, relying on the beauty of their thoughts, have judged the ornament of words, and sweetness of sound, unnecessary. One is for raking in Chaucer (our English Ennius) for antiquated words, which are never to be revived, but when sound or signincancy is wanting in the present language. But many of his deserve not this redemption, aap

more than the crowds of men who daily die, or are slain for sixpence in a battle, merit to be restored to life, if a wish could revive them. Others have no ear for verse, nor choice of words, nor distinction of thoughts; but mingle farthings with their gold to make up the sum. Here is a field of satire opened to me: but, since the Revolution, I have wholly renounced that talent. For who would give physic to the great, when he is uncalled, to do his patient no good, and endanger himself for his prescription? Neither am I ignorant, but I may justly be condemned for many of those faults, of which I have too liberally arraigned

shortest, and the most judicious. Fabrini I had also sent me from Italy; but either he understands Virgil but very imperfectly, or I have no knowledge of iny author.

Being invited, by that worthy gentleman sir William Bowyer, to Denham-court, I translated the first Georgic at his house, and the greatest part of the last Æneid. A more friendly entertainment no man ever found. Nor wonder, therefore, if both those versions surpass the rest, and own the satisfaction I received in his converse, with whom I had the honour to be bred in Cambridge, and in the same college. The seventh Æneid was made English at Burleigh, the magnificent abode of the earl of Exeter: in a village belonging to his family I was born, and under his It is enough for me, if the government will let me roof I endeavoured to make that Æneid appear in pass unquestioned. In the mean time, I am oblig- English with as much lustre as I could: though ed, in gratitude, to return my thanks to many of my author has not given the finishing strokes either them, who have not only distinguished me from to it, or to the eleventh, as I perhaps could prove others of the same party, by a particular excep-in both; if I durst presume to criticise my master.

others.

Cynthius aurem vellit, & admonuit.

tion of grace; but, without considering the man, have been bountiful to the poet: have encouraged Virgil to speak such English as I could teach him, and reward his interpreter, for the pains he has taken, in bringing him over into Britain, by defraying the charges of his voyage. Even Cerberus, when he had received the sop, permitted Æneas to pass freely to Elysium. Had it been offered me, and I had refus'd it, yet still some gratitude is due to such who were willing to oblige me. But how much more to those from whom I have received the favours which they have offered to one of a different persuasion? amongst whom I cannot omit naming the earls of Derby and of Peterborough. To the first of these, I have not

By a letter from William Walsh, of Abberly, esq. (who has so long honoured me with his friendship, and who, without flattery, is the best critie of our nation) I have been informed, that his grace the duke of Shrewsbury has procured a printed copy of the Pastorals, Georgics, and six first Æneids, from my bookseller, and has read them in the country, together with my friend. This noble person having been pleased to give them a commendation, which 1 presume not to insert; has made me vain enough to boast of so great a favour, and to think I have succeeded beyond my hopes; the character of his excellent judgment, the acuteness of his wit, and his general know

the honour to be known; and therefore his libera-ledge of good letters, being known as well to all

lity was as much unexpected, as it was undeserved.
The present earl of Peterborough has been pleased
long since to accept the tenders of my service: his
favours are so frequent to me, that I receive them
almost by prescription. No difference of interests
or opinion have been able to withdraw his pro-
tection from me: and I might justly be con-
demned for the most unthankful of mankind, if I
did not always preserve for him a most profound
respect and inviolable gratitude. I must also add,
that if the last Æneid shine among its fellows, it
is owing to the commands of sir William Truınball,
one of the principal secretaries of state, who re-
commended it, as his favourite, to my care; and,
for his sake particularly, I have made it mine.
For who would confess weariness, when he enjoined
a fresh labour? I could not but invoke the assist-
ance of a Muse, for this last office.

Extreinum hunc Arethusa:-
Negat quis carmina Gallo?

Neither am I to forget the noble present which was made me by Gilbert Dolben, esq. the worthy son of the late archbishop of York; who, when I began this work, enriched me with all the several editions of Virgil, and all the commentaries of those editions in Latin; amongst which, I could not but prefer the Dauphine's, as the last, thel

the world, as the sweetness of his disposition, his humanity, his easiness of access, and desire of obliging those who stand in need of his protection, are known to all who have approached him; and to me in particular, who have formerly had the honour of his conversation. Whoever has given the world the translation of part of the third Georgie, which he calls The Power of Love, has put me to sufficient pains to make my own not inferior to his: as my lord Roscommon's Silenus had formerly given me the same trouble. The most ingenious Mr. Addison, of Oxford, has also been as troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his bees, my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving. Mr. Cowley's Praise of a Country Life is excellent; but is rather an imitation of Virgil, than a version. That I have recovered in some measure the health which I had lost by too much application to this work, is owing, next to God's mercy, to the skill and care of Dr. Guibbons and Dr. Hobbs, the two ornaments of their profession; whom I can only pay by this acknowledgment. The whole faculty has always been ready to oblige me: and the only one of them, who endeavoured to defame me, had it not in his power1.

Sir Richard Blackmore.

TRANSLATIONS FROM JUVENAL.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES,

EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX,
LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOUSEHOLD,
KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE
GARTER, &C.

MY LORD,

THE wishes and desires of all good men, which have attended your lordship from your first appearance in the world, are at length accomplished, in your obtaining those honours and dignities, which you have so long deserved. There are no factions, though irreconcileable to one another, that are not united in their affection to you, and

the respect they pay you. They are equally pleased in your prosperity, and would be equally concerned in your affliction. Titus Vespasian was not more the delight of human-kind. The universal empire made him only more known, and more powerful, but could not make him more beloved. He had greater ability of doing good, but your inclination to it is not less: and though you could not extend your beneficence to so many persons, yet you have lost as few days as that excellent emperor, and never had his complaint to make when you went to bed, that the Sun had shone upon you in vain, when you had the opportunity of relieving some unhappy man. This, my lord, has justly acquired you as many friends as there are persons who have the honour to be known to you: mere acquaintance you have none; you have drawn them all into a nearer line; and they who have conversed with you are for ever after inviolably yours. This is a truth so generally acknowledged, that it needs no proof: it is of the nature of a first principle, which is received as soon as it is proposed ; and needs not the reformation which Descartes used to his: for we doubt not, neither can we properly say, we think we admire and love you, above all other men: there is a certainty in the proposition, and we know it. With the same assurance can I say, you neither have enemies, nor can scarce have any; for they who have never heard of you, can neither love or hate you; and they who have, can have no other notion of you, than that which they receive from the public, that you are the best of men. After this, my testimony can be of no farther use, than to declare it to be day-light at high noon: and all who have the benefit of sight, can look up as well and see the Sun.

It is true, I have one privilege which is almost particular to myself, that I saw you in the east at your first arising above the hemisphere: I was as soon sensible as any man of that light, when it was but just shooting out, and beginning to travel upward to the meridian. I made my early addresses to your lordship, in my Essay of Dramatic Poetry; and therein bespoke you to the world, wherein I have the right of a first discoverer. When I was myself in the rudiments of my Poetry, without name or reputation in the world, having rather the ambition of a writer, than the skill;

when I was drawing the out-lines of an art, without any living master to instruct me in it; an art which had been better praised than studied here in England, wherein Shakspeare, who created the stage among us, had rather written happily, than knowingly and justly: and Jonson, who, by studying Horace, had been acquainted with the rules, yet seemed to envy posterity that knowledge, and like an inventor of some useful art, to make a monopoly of his learning: when thus, as I inay say, before the use of the loadstone, or know. ledge of the compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without other help than the pole-star of the ancients, and the rules of the French stage amongst the moderns, which are extremely different from ours, by reason of their opposite taste; yet, even then, I had the presumption to dedicate to your lordship: a very unfinished piece, I must confess, and which only can be excused by the little experience of the author, and the modesty of the title, An Essay. Yet I was stronger in prophecy than I was in criticism; I was inspired to foretel you to mankind, as the restorer of poetry, the greatest genius, the truest judge, and the best patron.

Good sense and good nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. Good nature, by which I mean beneficence and candour, is the product of right reason; which of necessity will give allowance to the failings of others, by considering that there is nothing perfect in mankind; and, by distinguishing that which comes nearest to excellency, though not absolutely free from faults, will certainly produce a candour in the judge. It is incident to an elevated understanding, like your lordship's, to find out the errours of other men: but it is your prerogative 10 pardon them; to look with pleasure on those things, which are somewhat congenial, and of a remote kindred to your own conceptions; and to forgive the many failings of those, who, with their wretched art, cannot arrive to those heights that you possess from a happy, abundant, and

native genius; which are as inborn to you, as they were to Shakspeare; and, for aught I know, to Homer; in either of whom we find all arts and sciences, all moral and natural philosophy, without knowing that they ever studied them.

There is not an English writer this day living, who is not perfectly convinced, that your lordship - excels all others, in all the several parts of poetry which you have undertaken to adorn. The most vain, and the most ambitious of our age, have not dared to assume so much, as the competitors of Themistocles: they have yielded the first place - without dispute; and have been arrogantly content to be esteemed as second to your lordship; and even that also with a longe sed proximi inter- vallo. If there have been, or are any, who go = farther in their self-conceit, they must be very singular in their opinion: they must be like the officer in a play, who was called Captain, Lieu- tenant, and Company. The world will easily conclude, whether such unattended generals can ever be capable of making a revolution in Par

nassus.

I will not attempt, in this place, to say any - thing particular of your Lyric Poems, though they are the delight and wonder of this age, and will be the envy of the next. The subject of this book confines me to satire; and in that, an author of your own quality, (whose ashes I shall not disturb) - has given you all the commendation, which his - self-sufficiency could afford to any man: "The best good man, with the worst-natured Muse." In - that character, methinks, I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakspeare: an insolent, -sparing, and invidious panegyric: where goodnature, the most godlike commendation of a man, is only attributed to your person, and denied to your writings: for they are every where so full of candour, that, like Horace, you only expose the follies of men, without arraigning their vices; and in this excel him, that you add that pointedness of thought, which is visibly wanting in our great Roman. There is more of salt in all your verses, than I have seen in any of the moderns, or even of the ancients: but you have been sparing of the gall; by which means you have pleased all readers, and offen ied none. Donne alone, of all our countrymen, had your talent; but was not happy enough to arrive at your versification. And were he translated into numbers and English, he would yet be wanting in the dignity of expression. That which is the prime virtue and chief ornament of Virgil, which distinguishes him from the rest of writers, is so conspicuous in your verses, that it

casts a shadow on all your contemporaries; we cannot be seen, or but obscurely, while you are present. You equal Donne in the variety, multiplicity, and choice of thoughts; you excel him in the manner, and the words. I read you both with the same admiration, but not with the same delight. He affects the metaphysics, not only in his satires, but in his amorous verses, where nature only should reign; and perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice speculations of philosophy, when he should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softness of love. In this (if I may be pardoned for so bold a truth) Mr. Cowley has copied him to a fault; so great a one, in my opinion, that it throws his Mistress infinitely below his Pindariques, and his latter compositions, which are undoubtedly the best of his poems, and the most correct. For my own part, I must avow it freely to the world, that I never attempted any thing in satire, wherein I have not studied your writings as the most perfect model. I have continually laid them before me; and the greatest commendation, which my own partiality can give to my productions, is, that they are copies, and no farther to be allowed, than as they have something more or less of the original. Some few touches of your lordship, some secret graces which I have endeavoured to express after your manner, have made whole poems of mine to pass with approbation: but take your verses altogether, and they are inimitable. If therefore I have not written better, it is because you have not written more. You have not set me sufficient copy to transcribe; and I cannot add one letter of my own invention, of which I have not the example there.

It is a general complaint against your lordship, and I must have leave to upbraid you with it, that, because you need not write, you will not. Mankind that wish you so well, in all things that relate to your prosperity, have their intervals of wishing for themselves, and are within a little of grudging you the fullness of your fortune: they would be more malicious if you used it not so well, and with so much generosity.

Fame is in itself a real good, if we may believe Cicero, who was perhaps too fond of it. But even fame, as Virgil tells us, acquires strength by going forward. Let Epicurus give indolence as an attribute to his gods, and place in it the happiness of the blest: the divinity which we worship has given us not only a precept against it, but his own example to the contrary. The world, my lord, would be content to allow you a seventh day for rest; or, if you thought that hard upon you, we

would not refuse you half your time: if you come out, like some great monarch, to take a town but once a year, as it were for your diversion, though you had no need to extend your territories: in short, if you were a bad, or which is worse, an indifferent poet, we would thank you for your own quiet, and not expose you to the want of yours. But when you are so great and so successful, and when we have that necessity of your writing, that we cannot subsist entirely without it; any more (I may almost say) than the world without the daily course of ordinary providence, methinks this argument might prevail with you, my lord, to forego a little of your repose for the public benefit. It is not that you are under any force of working daily miracles, to prove your being; but now and then somewhat of extraordinary, that is any thing of your production, is requisite to refresh your character.

This, I think, my lord, is a sufficient reproach to you; and, should I carry it as far as mankind would authorise me, would be little less than satire. And, indeed, a provocation is almost necessary, in behalf of the world, that you might be induced sometimes to write; and in relation to a multitude of scribblers, who daily pester the world with their insufferable stuff, that they might be discouraged from writing any more. I complain not of their lampoons, and libels, though I have been the public mark for many years. I am vindictive enough to have repelled force by force, if I could imagine

been to me, are yet of dangerous example to the public: some witty men may perhaps succeed to their designs, and, mixing sense with malice, blast the reputation of the most innocent amongst men, and the most virtuous amongst women.

Heaven be praised, our common libellers are as free from the imputation of wit, as of morality; and therefore whatever mischief they have designed, they have performed but little of it. Yet these ill writers, in all justice, ought themselves to be exposed: as Persius has given us a fair example in his first satire: which is levelled par ticularly at them: and none is so fit to correct their faults, as he who is not only clear from any in his own writings, but also so just, that he will never defame the good; and is armed with the power of verse, to punish and make examples of the bad. But of this I shall have occasion to speak further, when I come to give the definition and character of true satires.

In the mean time, as a counsellor, bred up in the knowledge of the municipal and statute laws, may honestly inform a just prince how far his prerogative extends; so I may be allowed to tell your lordship, who, by an undisputed title, are the king of poets, what an extent of power you have, and how lawfully you may exercise it, over the petulant scribblers of this age. As lord chamberlain, I know, you are absolute by your office, in all that belongs to the decency and good manners of the stage. You can banish from thence scur

that any of them had ever reached me; but they | rility and prophaneness, and restrain the licentious

either shot at rovers, and therefore missed, or their power was so weak, that I might safely stand them, at the nearest distance. I answered not the Rehearsal, because I knew the author sat to himself when he drew the picture, and was the very Bayes of his own farce. Because also I knew, that my betters were more concerned than I was in that satire: and, lastly, because Mr. Smith and Mr. Jonson, the main pillars of it, were two such languishing gentlemen in their conversation, that I could liken them to nothing but to their own relations, those noble characters of men of wit and pleasure about the town. The like considerations have hindered me from dealing with the lamentable companions of their prose and doggrel; I am so far from defending my poetry against them, that I will not so much as expose theirs. And for my morals, if they are not proof against their attacks, let me be thought by posterity, what those authors would be thought, if any memory of them, or of their writings, could endure so long, as to another age. But these dull makers of lampoons, as harmless as they have

insolence of poets and their actors in all things
that shock the public quiet, or the reputation of
private persons, under the notion of humour. But
I mean not the authority which is annexed to your
office: I speak of that only which is inborn, and
inherent to your person. What is produced in
you by an excellent wit, a masterly and command-
ing genius over all writers: whereby you are in-
powered, when you please, to give the final de-
cision of wit; to put your stamp on all that ought
to pass for current; and set a brand of reproba-
tion on clipt poetry and false coin. A shilling,
dipt in the bath, may go for gold amongst the
ignorant; but the sceptres on the guineas show
the difference. That your lordship is formed by
nature for this supremacy, I could easily prove,
(were it not already granted by the world,) from
the distinguishing character of your writings;
which is so visible to me, that I never could be
imposed on to receive for yours what is written by
any others; or to mistake your genuine poetry
for their spurious productions. I can farther add
with truth (though not without some vanity jo

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