« ПретходнаНастави »
THE ANCIENT POETS.
Let free, impartial men, from Dryden learn
And save the sheep for actions, rot for thoughts, Mysterious secrets, of a high concern,
Hath toớ much mercy to fend men to heli, And weighty truths, folid convincing sense,
For huinble charity, and loping well. Explain'd tý unaffected eloquence.
To what stupidity are zealots grown, What can you (Reverend Leri) here take ill?
Whose inhumanity produjely Town dien still had faults, and men will have them fill; In ciamning crowds of souls, may damn their own. He thai hath rone, and lives as angels do,
I'll err at least on the securer side, Must be at angel, but what's that to you?
A convert free from malice and from pride. While mighty Lewis firds the pope too great; And dreads the yoke of his imposing scat, Our secs a more tyrannic power assume, And would lor sio?pio::s change the rods of Rome; TO MY FRIEND, MR. JOHN DRYDEN, That church detain'd the legacy divine; Iar atics cat the pearls of heaven to swine:
ON HIS SEVERAL EXCELLENT TRANSLATIONI What then have thinking tonest men to do, But chufe a mean between th' ofurping two? Nor can th' Açyptian patriarch Hame thy muse, BY G. GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNI. Which for his firinness does his heat excuse; Wealt er councils have approv'd his creed, The pretace sure was his own act and deed.
S flowers transplanted from a southern sky, A
Fut hardly bear, or in the railing die; Our church vill have that preface read, you»il say: Missing their native sun, at leít retain "Tis true: but so she will in' Apocrypha;
But a faint odour, and survive with pain : And such as can believe them, freely may. Thus arc ent wit, in mocern numbers taught? But did that Coi (folittle underifood)
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote, Whose da: ling attribute is being good,
Is a dead image, and a sen!cleis draught.
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude from thy translated song, In that sad place from wlence is no return,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so Itrong, For urtelief in ore they never knew,
Cæleftial poet! foul of harmony ! Or for not doing what they covid not do!
That every genius was reviv'd in thee. The very fiends krow for what crime they felly
Thy trumpet founds, the dead are rais'd to light, And so do all their followers that rebel :
Never 10 die, and take to heaven their fichi;