Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'-- 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end.' This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey. Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His 'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered a blot upon the poem. FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." Immodest words admit of no defence; For want of decency is want of sense. What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? Variety of such is to be found: Take then a subject proper to expound; But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; For men of sense despise a trivial choice; And such applause it must expect to meet, As would some painter busy in a street, To copy bulls and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: It must delight us when 'tis understood. He that brings fulsome objects to my view, As many old have done, and many new, With nauseous images my fancy fills, And all goes down like oxymel of squills. Instruct the listening world how Maro sings Of useful subjects and of lofty things. These will such true, such bright ideas raise, As merit gratitude, as well as praise: But foul descriptions are offensive still, Either for being like, or being ill: For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, And Horace looks with indignation down: My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, And whom they like implicitly admires.