Lord Marquis of Winchester Earl of Weymouth Lady Windham Sir John Walter, Bart. Sir John Woodhouse, Bart. Sir Francis Windham James Ward, Esq. Will. Wardour, jun. Esq. Will. Welby, Esq. Will. Weld, Esq. Th. Brome Whorwood, Esq. Salw. Winnington, Esq. Col. Cornelius Wood Mrs Mary Walter Mr Leonard Wessel RECOMMENDATORY POEMS. TO MR DRYDEN, ON HIS EXCELLENT _TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL_. Whene'er great Virgil's lofty verse I see, The pompous scene charms my admiring eye. There different beauties in perfection meet; The thoughts as proper, as the numbers sweet; And, when wild Fancy mounts a daring height, Judgment steps in, and moderates her flight. Wisely he manages his wealthy store, Still says enough, and yet implies still more: For, though the weighty sense be closely wrought, The reader's left to improve the pleasing thought. Hence we despaired to see an English dress Should e'er his nervous energy express; For who could that in fettered rhyme inclose, Which, without loss, can scarce be told in prose? But you, great Sir, his manly genius raise, And make your copy share an equal praise. Oh! how I see thee, in soft scenes of love, Renew those passions he alone could move! Here Cupid's charms are with new art exprest, And pale Eliza leaves her peaceful rest-- Leaves her Elysium, as if glad to live, } To love, and wish, to sigh, despair, and grieve, } And die again for him that would again deceive. } Nor does the mighty Trojan less appear Than Mars himself, amidst the storms of war. Now his fierce eyes with double fury glow, And a new dread attends the impending blow: The Daunian chiefs their eager rage abate, And, though unwounded, seem to feel their fate. Long the rude fury of an ignorant age, With barbarous spite, profaned his sacred page. The heavy Dutchmen, with laborious toil, Wrested his sense, and cramped his vigorous style. No time, no pains, the drudging pedants spare, But still his shoulders must the burden bear; While, through the mazes of their comments led, We learn, not what he writes, but what they read. Yet, through these shades of undistinguished night, Appeared some glimmering intervals of light; Till mangled by a vile translating sect, Like babes by witches _in effigie_ rackt: Till Ogleby, mature in dulness, rose, And Holbourn doggrel, and low chiming prose, His strength and beauty did at once depose. But now the magic spell is at an end, Since even the dead, in you, have found a friend. You free the bard from rude oppressors' power, And grace his verse with charms unknown before. He, doubly thus obliged, must doubting stand, Which chiefly should his gratitude command-- Whether should claim the tribute of his heart,