An Essay on Translated Verse (Roscommon)/An Essay on Translated Verse

by Wentworth Dillon

AN

ESSAY

ON

Translated Verse.

 

HAppy that Author; whose correct Essay
Repairs so well our Old Horatian way;
And happy those, who, (if concurring Stars
Prædestinate them to Poetick Wars)
With Pains, and leisure, by such Precepts write;
And learn to use their arms before they fight.
But since the Press, the Pulpit, and the Stage,
Joyn all their forces, to invade our Age.
Provok'd, and urg'd, we resolutely must
To the few Virtues that we have, be just.
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more,
To search the Treasures of the Roman store;
Or dig in Græcian Mines for purer Oar?
The noblest Fruits Transplanted, in our Isle
With early Hope, and fragrant Blossoms smile.
Familiar Ovid tender Thoughts inspires,
And Nature seconds all his soft Desires:
Theocritus do's now to Us belong;
And Albion's Rocks repeat his Rural Song.
Who has not heard how Italy was blest,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy East?
Or Gallus Song, so tender, and so True,
As ev'n Lycoris might with pity view!
When Mourning Nymphs attend their Daphnis Herse,
Who do's not Weep, that Reads the moving Verse!
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But hear, oh hear, in what exalted streins
Sicilian Muses through these happy Plains,
Proclaim Saturnian Times, our own Apollo Reigns.

 When France had breath'd, after intestine Broils,
And Peace, and Conquest crown'd her forreign Toils,
There (cultivated by a Royal Hand)
Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the Land;
The choicest Books, that Rome, or Greece have known,
Her excellent Translators made her own:
And Europe must acknowledge, that she gains,
Both by their good Example and their Pains.
From hence our gen'rous Emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
But now, We shew the world a nobler Way,
And in Translated Verse, do more than They.
Serene, and clear, Harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be exprest in Prose.
Degrading Prose explains his meaning ill,
And shews the Stuff, but not the Workman's skill.
I (who have serv'd him more than twenty years)
Scarce know my Master as He there appears.
Vain are our Neighbours Hopes, and Vain their Cares,
The Fault is more their Languages, then theirs.
'Tis copious, florid, pleasing to your Ear;
With softness, more perhaps, then Ours can bear.
But who did ever in French Authors see
The Comprehensive, English Energy?
The weighty Bullion of One Sterling Line,
Drawn to French Wire, would through whole Pages Shine.
I speak my Private, but Impartial sense,
With Freedom, and (I hope) without offence:
For I'le Recant, when France can shew me Wit,
As strong as Ours, and as succinctly Writ.
'Tis true, Composing is the Nobler Part,
But good Translation is no easie Art:
For tho Materials have long since been found,
Yet both your fancy, and your Hands are bound;
And by Improving what was writ Before;
Invention Labours Less, but Judgment, more.

The Soil intended for Pierian seeds,
Must be well purg'd from rank Pedantick Weeds.
Apollo starts, and All Parnassus shakes,
At the rude Rumbling Baralipton makes.
For None have been, with Admiration, read,
But who (beside their Learning) were Well-Bred.
The first great work, (a Task perform'd by Few)
Is, that your self may to your self be True:
No Masque, no Tricks, no Favour, no Reserve;
Dissect your Mind, examine ev'ry Nerve.
Whoever Vainly on his strength depends,
Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius, Ends.
That wretch (in spight of his forgotten Rhymes)
Condemn'd to Live to all succeeding Times,
With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing sound,
Sung lofty Ilium, Tumbling to the Ground.
For (if my Muse can through past Ages see)
That Noisy, Nauseous, Gaping Fool was He;
Exploded, when with universal scorn,
A Mountain Labour'd and a Mouse was Born.

 Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler cryes
Audacious Mortals, and be Timely Wise!
'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,
Wedg'd in that Timber which He strove to Rend.

 Each Poet, with a different Talent writes,
One Praises, One Instructs, Another Bites.
Horace did nere aspire to Epick Bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop'd to Lyrick Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the Ruling Passion of your Mind;
Then, seek a Poet who your way do's bend,
And chuse an Author as you chuse a Friend.
United by this Sympathetick Bond,
You grow Familiar, Intimate and Fond;
Your Thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your Souls agree,
No Longer his Interpreter, but He.

 With how much ease is a young Muse Betray'd,
How nice the Reputation of the Maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chast Instruction of her Tender Years.
The first Impression in her Infant Breast,
As 'tis the deepest, ought to be the Best:
No rigid Awe shou'd breed a servile Fear,
No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-Ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's Affected state,
And specious Flattery's more pernicious Bait,
Habitual Innocence adorns each Thought,
And 'tis your Crime if She commit a Fau't.

 Immodest words (whatever the Pretence)
Always want Decency, and often, Sense.
What mod'rate Fop wou'd rake the Park, or Stews,
Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may chuse?
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 wou'd some Painter, busie in a Street,
To Copy Bulls and Bears, and ev'ry 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 list'ning world how Maro sings
Of useful subjects, and of lofty Things.
There will such true, such bright Idea's 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 lookt,
On Holy Garbadge, tho by Homer Cookt?
Whose Rayling Heroe's, 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, Implicitely Admires.

 On sure Foundations let your Fabrick Rise,
And with inviting Majesty surprise,
Not by affected, meretricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symetry 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 Heav'n, from whence the Blessing came;
But, few, oh, few, Souls, præordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd Height.
No Rebel-Titan's sacrilegious Crime,
By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.
The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd
Æneas entrance, till he knew his Guid;
How justly then will impious Mortals fall,
Whose Pride would soar to Heav'n without a Call?
Pride (of all others the most dangerous Fau't,)
Proceeds from Ignorance, and 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 petty Deity inhabits there:
Heav'n shakes not more at Jove's imperial Nod,
Then Poets shou'd before their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty MARO! may that Sacred Name,
Kindle my Breast with thy cælestial Flame;
Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse.
The Muse instruct my Voice, and Thou inspire the Muse!

 What I have instanc'd 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 ev'ry Comment, that your Care can find,
Some here, some there, may hit the Poets Mind;
Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng;
Which has been, and is often in the Wrong.
When Things appear unnatural or hard,
Consult your Author, with Himself compar'd;
Who knows what Blessing Phœbus may bestow,
And future Ages to your labour owe?
Such Secrets are not easily found out,
But once Discover'd, leave no Room for Doubt.
Truth Stamps Conviction in your Ravisht Breast,
And Peace and Joy attend the glorious Guest.
Yet if one shaddow of a Scruple stay,
Sure the most beaten is the safest way.
Fear is the base Companion of a Slave,
But Prudence the Perfection of the Brave.
Truth still is One; Truth is Divinely bright,
No cloudy Doubts obscure her Native Light.
While in your Thoughts you find the least Debate
You may Confound, but never can Translate.
Your Stile will this through all Disguises show,
For None, explain, more clearly then they Know.
He only proves he Understands a Text,
Whose Exposition leaves it unperplex'd.
They who too formally on Names insist,
Rather Create then Dissipate the Mist.
And grow Unjust by being over-nice,
(For Superstitious Virtue turns to Vice.)
Judicious Horace us'd a Parthian Name,
Hor. 6th. Ode lib. 3d. (Rome was no Stranger to Monæse's Fame,)
Yet since the Victor is but little known,
But Crassus more for being overthrown.
The Roman for the Parthian Name will be,
A Tedious Comment's True Epitome.

 Words in One Language Elegantly us'd,
Will hardly in another be excus'd.
And some that Rome admir'd in Cæsars Time,
May neither suit Our Genius nor our Clime.
The Genuine Sence, intelligibly Told,
Shews a Translator both Discreet, and Bold.

 Excursions are inexpiably Bad,
For 'tis much safer to leave out, than Add.
Be not too fond of a Sonorous Line;
Good Sence will through a plain expression shine.
Few Painters can such Master strokes command,
As are the noblest in a skilful Hand.
In This, your Author will the best advise,
Fall when He falls, and when He Rises, Rise.
Affected Noise is the most wretched Thing,
That to Contempt can Empty Scriblers bring.
Vowels and Accents, Regularly plac'd
On even Syllables (and still the Last)
Tho all imaginable Faults abound,
Will never want the Pageantry of Sound.
Whatever Sister of the learned Nine
Do's to your Suit a willing Ear incline,
Urge your success deserve a lasting Name,
She'l Crown a Grateful and a Constant Flame.
But if a wild Uncertainty prevail,
And turn your Veering heart with ev'ry Gale,
You lose the Fruit of all your former care,
For the sad Prospect of a Just Despair.

 A Quack (too scandalously Mean to Name)
Had, by Man-Midwifery, got Wealth, and Fame;
As if Lucina had forgot her Trade,
The Lab'ring Wife invok's his surer Aid.
Well-season'd Bowls the Gossyps Spirits raise,
Who, while she Guzzles, Chats the Doctor's Praise.
And largely, what she wants in Words, supplies,
With Maudlin-Eloquence of trickling Eyes.
But what a thoughtless Animal is Man,
(How very Active in his own Trepan!)
For greedy of Physicians frequent Fees,
From Female Mellow Praise He takes Degrees:
Struts in a new Unlicens'd Gown, and then,
From saving Women falls to Killing Men.
Another Such had left the Nation, Thin,
In spight of all the Children He brought in.
His Pills, as thick as Hand Granadoes flew,
And where they Fell, as Certainly, they Slew.
His Name struck ev'ry where as great a Damp
As Archimedes through the Roman Camp.
With This, the Doctors Pride began to Cool,
For Smarting soundly may convince a Fool.
But now Repentance came too late, for Grace;
And meager Famine star'd him in the Face.
Fain would He to the Wives be reconcil'd,
But found no Husband left to Own a Child.
The Friends, that Got the Brats, were poyson'd too;
In such Distress what could our Vermin do?
Worry'd with Debts, and past all Hope of Bail,
Th' unpitty'd Wretch lies Rotting in a Jail.
And There, with Basket-Alms, scarce kept Alive,
Shews how Mistaken Talents ought to Thrive.

 I Pity, from my Soul, Unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to Prostitute their Pen;
Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve, or Plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where Guynys Lead;
But you, Pompilian wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your Country owe your Swords, and Cares.
Let no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse.
'Tis very Dangerous, Tampring with a Muse,
The Profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For, tho true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted Race.
No Poet any Passion can Excite;
But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan Cave.
And heard th' Impatient Maid Divinely Rave?
I hear her now; I see her Rowling Eyes;
And panting; Lo! the God, the God she cries;
With words, not Hers, and more then humane sound,
She makes the obedient Ghosts peep trembling thro the ground
But tho we must obey when heaven Commands,
And man in vain the Sacred Call withstands,
Beware what Spirit rages in your breast.
For ten inspir'd ten thousand are Possest.
Thus make the proper use of each Extream,
And write with fury but correct with Phleam.
As when the Chearful hours too freely Pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting Glass,
Your Pulse advises, and Begins to beat
Through Every swelling Vein a loud retreat.
So when a Muse Propitiously invites
Improve her favours, and Indulge her flights,
But when you find that Vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the Radiant Sun, a Glimmering Lamp;
Adult'rate Mettals to the Sterling Stamp,
Appear not meaner, than mere humane Lines,
Compar'd with those whose Inspiration shines;
These, Nerucus, bold; those Languid, and remiss;
There, cold salutes, But here, a Lovers kiss.
Thus have I seen a Rapid, headlong Tide,
With foaming Waves the Passive Soan Divide
Whose Lazy Waters without Motion lay
While he, with eager force, urg'd his Impetuous way.

$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$ The Priviledge that Ancient Poets claim
Now turn'd to License by too just a Name;
Belongs to none but an Establisht Fame,
Which scorns to Take it —————
Absur'd Expressions, crude, Abortive Thoughts,
All the lewd Legion of Exploded fau'ts,
Base Fugitives to that Asylum fly,
And sacred Laws with Insolence Defy.
Not thus our Heroes of the former Days,
Deserv'd, and Gain'd their never fading Bayes;
For I mistake, or far the greatest Part,
Of what some call Neglect was study'd Art.
When Virgil, seems to Trifle in a Line,
'Tis like a Warning-Piece, which gives the Sign
To Wake your Fancy, and prepare your Sight,
To reach the noble Height of some unusual Flight.
I lose my Patience, when, with Sawcy Pride,
By untun'd Ears I hear His Numbers try'd.
Reverse of Nature! shall such Copies, then
Arrain th' Originals of Maro's Pen!
And the rude Notions of Pedantick Schools
Blaspheme the sacred Founder of Our Rules!

 The Delicacy of the nicest Ear
Finds nothing harsh, or out of Order There
Sublime or Low, unbended or Intense,
The sound is still a Comment to the Sense.

 A skilful Ear, in Numbers shou'd preside,
And all Disputes without Appeal decide.
This ancient Rome, and Elder Athens found,
Before mistaken stops debauch'd the sound.

 When, by Impulse from Heaven, Tyrtæus Sung,
In drooping Souldiers a new Courage sprung;
Reviving Spartans now the fight mantain'd,
And what Two Gen'rals Lost, a Poet Gain'd.
By secret Influence of Indulgent Skyes,
Empire, and Poesy Together rise.
True Poets are the Guardians of a State,
And when They Fail, portend approaching Fate.
For that which Rome to Conquest did Inspire,
Was not the Vestal, but the Muses sire;
Heaven joyns the Blessings, no declining Age,
E're felt the Raptures of Poetick Rage.

 Of many faults, Rhyme is (perhaps) the Cause,
Too strict to Rhyme We slight more useful Laws.
For That, in Greece or Rome, was never known,
'Till By Barbarian Deluges oreflown,
Subdu'd, Undone, They did at Last, Obey,
And change their Own for their Invaders way.

 I grant that from some Mossy, Idol Oak
In Double Rhymes our Thor and Woden spoke;
And by Succession of unlearned Times,
As Bards began so Monks Rung on the Chimes.

 But now that Phæbus and the sacred Nine,
With all their Beams on our blest Island shine,
Why should not We their ancient Rites restore
And be, what Rome or Athens were Before?
O may I Live to see that glorious Day,
And sing loud Pæans through the Crowded way:
When in Triumphant state the British Muse
True to her self shall Barb'rous aid refuse.
And in that Roman Majesty appear,
Which none knows better and none Comes so near.

 

FINIS.