On sure foundations let your fabric rise, And with attractive majesty surprise; Not by affected meretricious arts, But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; Which through the whole insensibly must pass, With vital heat to animate the mass: A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, The race of gods, have reached that envied height. No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: The grizzly ferryman of hell denied Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. How justly then will impious mortals fall, Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call! Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. The men who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast: For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. How many ages since has Virgil writ! How few are they who understand him yet! Approach his altars with religious fear: No vulgar deity inhabits there. Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, Than poets should before their Mantuan god. Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse! What I have instanced only in the best, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; Search every comment that your care can find; Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural or hard, Consult your author, with himself compared. Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, And future ages to your labour owe? Such secrets are not easily found out; But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt. Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; While in your thoughts you find the least debase, You may confound, but never can translate. Your style will this through all disguises show; For none explain more clearly than they know. He only proves he understands a text, Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. They who too faithfully on names insist, Rather create than dissipate the mist; And grow unjust by being over nice, For superstitious virtue turns to vice. Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name. Words in one language elegantly used, Will hardly in another be excused; And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, May neither suit our genius nor our clime. The genuine sense, intelligibly told, Shows a translator both discreet and bold.