You, like his hero, though yourself were free, And disentangled from the war of wit-- You, who secure might others' danger see, And safe from all malicious censure sit-- VII. Yet, because sacred Virgil's noble Muse, O'erlaid by fools, was ready to expire, To risk your fame again, you boldly chuse, Or to redeem, or perish with your sire. VIII. Even first and last, we owe him half to you: For, that his Æneids missed their threatened fate, Was--that his friends by some prediction knew, Hereafter, who, correcting, should translate. IX. But hold, my Muse! thy needless flight restrain, Unless, like him, thou could'st a verse indite: To think his fancy to describe, is vain, Since nothing can discover light, but light. X. 'Tis want of genius that does more deny; 'Tis fear my praise should make your glory less; And, therefore, like the modest painter, I Must draw the veil, where I cannot express. HENRY GRAHME. TO MR DRYDEN. No undisputed monarch governed yet, With universal sway, the realms of wit: Nature could never such expence afford; Each several province owned a several lord. A poet then had his poetic wife, One Muse embraced, and married for his life. By the stale thing his appetite was cloyed, His fancy lessened, and his fire destroyed. But Nature, grown extravagantly kind, With all her treasures did adorn your mind; The different powers were then united found, And you wit's universal monarch crowned. Your mighty sway your great desert secures; And every Muse and every Grace is yours. To none confined, by turns you all enjoy: Sated with this, you to another fly, So, sultan-like, in your seraglio stand, While wishing Muses wait for your command; Thus no decay, no want of vigour, find: Sublime your fancy, boundless is your mind. Not all the blasts of Time can do you wrong-- Young, spite of age--in spite of weakness, strong. Time, like Alcides, strikes you to the ground; You, like Antæus, from each fall rebound. H. ST. JOHN. TO MR DRYDEN, ON _HIS VIRGIL_. 'Tis said, that Phidias gave such living grace To the carved image of a beauteous face, That the cold marble might even seem to be The life--and the true life, the imagery. You pass that artist, Sir, and all his powers, Making the best of Roman poets ours, With such effect, we know not which to call The imitation, which the original. What Virgil lent, you pay in equal weight; The charming beauty of the coin no less; And such the majesty of your impress, You seem the very author you translate.