WE read, how Dreams and Visions heretofore,
The Prophet, and the Poet cou'd inspire;
And make 'em in unusual Rapture soar,
With Rage Divine, and with Poetick Fire.
But for a while vouchsafe to bear the Light;
To grace my Numbers, and that Muse to aid,
Who sings the Poet, that has done him right.
To lye at ev'ry dull Translator's Will;
Long, long his Muse has groan'd beneath the weight
Of mangling Ogleby's presumptuous Quill.
The Father now is righted by the Son:
And while his Muse endeavours to disclose
That Poet's Beauties, she declares her own.
Each Thought, betrays such a Majestick Touch;
He cou'd not, had he finish'd his Design,
Have wisht it better, or have done so much.
And disentangl'd from the War of Wit;
You, who secure might others danger see,
And safe from all malicious Censure sit:
O'erlay'd by Fools, was ready to expire:
To risque your Fame again, you boldly chuse,
Or to redeem, or perish with your Sire.
For that his Æneids miss'd their threatned Fate,
Was———that his Friends by some Prediction knew,
Hereafter who correcting should translate.
Unless like him thou cou'dst a Verse indite:
To think his Fancy to describe, is vain,
Since nothing can discover Light, but Light.
'Tis Fear my Praise shou'd make your Glory less.
And therefore, like the modest Painter, I
Must draw the Vail, where I cannot express.