I must also observe, that I have had the happiness to see one part of these verses abundantly disproved by Mr Pope, and accordingly I retract it with pleasure; for that admirable author, who evidently inherits the bright invention, and the harmonious versification of Mr Dryden, has increased the reputation his other ingenious writings had obtained him, by the permanent fame of having finished a translation of the Iliad of Homer, with surprising genius and merit. UPON READING MR DRYDEN’S FABLES. Our great forefathers, in poetic song, Were rude in diction, though their sense was strong; Well-measured verse they knew not how to frame, Their words ungraceful, and the cadence lame. Too far they wildly ranged to start the prey, And did too much of Fairy-land display; And in their rugged dissonance of lines, True manly thought debased with trifles shines. Each gaudy flower that wantons on the mead, Must not appear within the curious bed; But nature’s chosen birth should flourish there, And with their beauties crown the sweet parterre. Such was the scene, when Dryden came to found More perfect lays, with harmony of sound: What lively colours glow on every draught! How bright his images, how raised his thought! The parts proportioned to their proper place, With strength supported, and adorned with grace. With what perfection did his artful hand The various kinds of poesy command! And the whole choir of Muses at his call, In his rich song, which was inspired of all, Spoke from the chords of his enchanting lyre, And gave his breast the fulness of their fire. As while the sun displays his lordly light, The host of stars are humbly veiled from sight, Till when he falls, they kindle all on high, And smartly sparkle in the nightly sky: His fellow bards suspended thus their ray, Drowned in the strong effulgence of his day; But glowing to their rise, at his decline, Each cast his beams, and each began to shine. As years advance, the abated soul, in most, Sinks to low ebb, in second childhood lost; And spoiling age, dishonouring our kind, Robs all the treasures of the wasted mind; With hovering clouds obscures the muffled sight, And dim suffusion of enduring night: But the rich fervour of his rising rage, Prevailed o’er all the infirmities of age; And, unimpaired by injuries of time, Enjoyed the bloom of a perpetual prime. His fire not less, he more correctly writ, With ripened judgment, and digested wit; When the luxuriant ardour of his youth, Succeeding years had tamed to better growth, And seemed to break the body’s crust away, To give the expanded mind more room to play; Which, in its evening, opened on the sight, Surprising beams of full meridian light; As thrifty of its splendour it had been, And all its lustre had reserved till then.