His next work is the translation of the Art of Poetry;' which has received, in my opinion, not less praise than it deserves. Blank verse, left merely to its numbers, has little operation either on the ear or mind: it can hardly support itself without bold figures and striking images. A poem frigidly didactic, without rhyme, is so near to prose, that the reader only scorns it for pretending to be verse.

Having disentangled himself from the difficulties of rhyme, he may justly be expected to give the sense of Horace with great exactness, and to suppress no subtilty of sentiment for the difficulty of expressing it. This demand, however, his translation will not satisfy; what he found obscure, I do not know that he has ever cleared.

Among his smaller works, the Eclogue of Virgil and the Dies Ira are well translated; though the best line in the Dies Ira is borrowed from Dryden. In return, succeeding poets have borrowed from Roscommon.

In the verses on the Lap-dog, the pronouns thou and you are offensively confounded; and the turn at the end is from Waller.

His versions of the two odes of Horace are made with great liberty, which is not recompensed by much elegance or vigour.

His political verses are sprightly, and when they were written must have been very popular.

Of the scene of Guarini, and the prologue of Pompey, Mrs. Philips, in her letters to Sir Charles Cotterel, has given the history.

"Lord Roscommon," says she, "is certainly one of the most promising young noblemen in Ireland. He has paraphrased a Psalm admirably; and a scene of Pastor Fido very finely, in some places much better than Sir Richard Fanshaw. This was undertaken merely in compliment to me, who happened to say that it was the best scene in Italian, and the worst

in English. He was only two hours about it. It begins thus:

Dear happy groves, and you the dark retreat

Of silent horror, Rest's eternal seat.'”

From these lines, which are since somewhat mended, it appears that he did not think a work of two hours fit to endure the eye of criticism without revisal.

When Mrs. Philips was in Ireland, some ladies that had seen her translation of Pompey resolved to bring it on the stage at Dublin; and, to promote their design, Lord Roscommon gave them a prologue, and Sir Edward Dering an epilogue; ‘which,' says she, are the best performances of those kinds I ever saw.' If this is not criticism, it is at least gratitude. The thought of bringing Cæsar and Pompey into Ireland, the only country over which Cæsar never had any power, is lucky.

Of Roscommon's works the judgment of the public seems to be right. He is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous; and his rhymes are remarkably exact. He improved taste, if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors to English literature.

AN

ESSAY

ON

TRANSLATED VERSE.

Cape dona extrema tuorum.

HAPPY that author' whose correct Essay
Repairs so well our old Horatian way;
And happy you, who (by propitious fate)
On great Apollo's sacred standard wait,
And with strict discipline instructed right,
Have learn'd to use your arms before you fight.
But since the press, the pulpit, and the stage,
Conspire to censure and expose our age,
Provoked too far, we resolutely must,
To the few virtues that we have, be just:
For who have long'd, or who have labour'd more
To search the treasures of the Roman store,
Or dig in Grecian mines for purer ore?
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 :

1 John Sheffield, duke of Buckingham.

Theocritus does now to us belong;
And Albion's rocks repeat his rural song.
Who has not heard how Italy was bless'd,
Above the Medes, above the wealthy East?
Or Gallus' song, so tender and so true,
As even Lycoris might with pity view!

When mourning nymphs attend their Daphnis' hearse,

Who does not weep that reads the moving verse?
But hear, oh hear, in what exalted strains
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 foreign toils,
There (cultivated by a royal hand)

Learning grew fast, and spread, and bless'd the land!
The choicest books that Rome or Greece have

known,

Her excellent translators made her own;
And Europe still considerably gains,

Both by their good example and their pains.
From hence our generous emulation came,
We undertook, and we perform'd the same.
But now, we show the world a nobler way,
And in translated verse do more than they.
Serene and clear, harmonious Horace flows,
With sweetness not to be express'd in prose:
Degrading prose explains his meaning ill,

And shows the stuff, but not the workman's skill;
I (who have served 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 language's than theirs:

[shine.

"Tis courtly, florid, and abounds in words
Of softer sound than ours perhaps affords:
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
I speak my private, but impartial sense,
With freedom, and (I hope) without offence;
For I'll recant, when France can show me wit
As strong as ours, and as succinctly writ.
"Tis true, composing is the nobler part;
But good translation is no easy art;

For though 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 purged from rank pedantic 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 performed by few)
Is, that yourself may to yourself be true:
No mask, no tricks, no favour, no reserve;
Dissect your mind, examine every nerve.
Whoever vainly on his strength depends,
Begins like Virgil, but like Mævius ends.
That wretch (in spite 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:
And (if my Muse can through past ages see)
That noisy, nauseous, gaping fool was he;