Page:An Essay on Translated Verse - Roscommon (1684).djvu/13

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In whom ripe judgement and Young fancy meet,
And force Poetic Rage to be discreet.
Who growes not nauseous whiles he strives to please:
But marks the Shelves in the Poetic Seas.
Who knows, and teaches what our Clime can bear
And makes the barren ground obey the labourers care.

Few cou'd conceive, none the great work cou'd do,
Tis a fresh province, and reserv'd for You.

Those Talents all are yours, of which but One,
Were a Fair Fortune for a Muses Son.
Wit, reading, judgement, conversation, art,
A head well ballanc'd, and a generous heart.
While insect Rhymes cloud the polluted Skie,
Created to molest the world, and die.
Your File do's polish, what your Fancy cast,
Works are long forming which must alwayes last,
Rough iron sense, and stubborn to the Mold
Touch'd by your Chymic hand is turn'd to Gold,
A secret Grace fashions the flowing lines,
And inspiration thro the Labour shines.
Writers in spight of all their paint and Art,
Betray the darling passion of their heart.
No Fame you wound, give no chast ears offence.
Still true to Friendship, Modesty, and Sence.
So Saints from Heaven for our example sent,
Live to their Rules, have nothing to repent.

(a)
Horace,