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Silence was in the court at this rebuke: Nor could the gods abash'd sustain their sovereign's look.

The limping smith observ'd the sadden'd
feast,

And hopping here and there, (himself a jest,)
Put in his word, that neither might offend;
To Jove obsequious, yet his mother's friend.
What end in heaven will be of civil war,
If gods of pleasure will for mortals jar?
Such discord but disturbs our jovial feast;
One grain of bad imbitters all the best.
Mother, though wise yourself, my counsel
weigh;

"T is much unsafe my sire to disobey.
Not only you provoke him to your cost,
But mirth is marr'd, and the good cheer is lost.
Tempt not his heavy hand; for he has
power
To throw you headlong from his heavenly

tower.

But one submissive word, which you let fall, Will make him in good humour with us all,

He said no more; but crown'd a bowl unbid :
The laughing nectar overlook'd the lid:
Then put it to her hand; and thus pursued:
This cursed quarrel be no more renew'd.
Be, as becomes a wife, obedient still:
Though griev'd, yet subject to her husband's
will.

I would not see you beaten; yet afraid
Of Jove's superior force, I dare not aid.
Too well I know him, since that hapless hour
When I and all the gods employ'd our power
To break your bonds: me by the heel he drew,
And o'er heaven's battlements with fury threw :
All day I fell; my flight at morn begun,
And ended not but with the setting sun.
Pitch'd on my head, at length the Lemnian
ground

Receiv'd my batter'd skull, the Sinthians heal'd my wound,

At Vulcan's homely mirth his mother smil'd, And smiling took the cup the clown had fill'd. The reconciler-bowl went round the board, Which, emptied, the rude skinker still restor❜d. Louds fits of laughter seiz'd the guests to see The limping god so deft at his new ministry. The feast continued till declining light: They drank, they laugh'd, they lov'd, and then 't was night.

Nor wanted tuneful harp, nor vocal quire; The Muses sung; Apollo touch'd the lyre. Drunken at last, and drowsy they depart, Each to his house; adorn'd with labour'd art Of the lame architect: the thundering god E'en he withdrew to rest, and had his load. His swimming head to needful sleep applied; And Juno lay unheeded by his side.

THE LAST PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.
THE ARGUMENT.

Hector returning from the field of battle, to visit Helen his sister-in-law, and his brother Paris, who had fought unsuccessfully hand to hand with Menelaus, from thence goes to his own palace to see his wife Andromache,and his infant son Astyanax. The description of that interview is the subject of this translation.

THUS having said, brave Hector went to see
His virtuous wife, the fair Andromache.
He found her not at home; for she was gone,
Attended by her maid and infant son,
To climb the steepy tower of Ilion:
From whence, with heavy heart, she might sur-

vey

The bloody business of the dreadful day. Her mournful eyes she cast around the plain, And sought the lord of her desires in vain.

But he, who thought his peopled palace bare,
When she, his only comfort, was not there,
Stood in the gate, and ask'd of every one,
Which way she took, and whither she was gone:
If to the court, or, with his mother's train,
In long procession to Minerva's fane?
The servants answer'd, Neither to the court,
Where Priam's sons and daughters did resort
Nor to the temple was she, gone, to move
With prayers the blue-eyed progeny of Jove,
But more solicitous for him alone,
Than all their safety, to the tower was gone,
There to survey the labours of the field,
Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans
yield;

Swiftly she pass'd with fear and fury wild;
The nurse went lagging after with the child.

This heard, the noble Hector made no stay; The admiring throng divide to give him way; He pass'd through every street, by which he

came,

And at the gate he met the mournful dame.

His wife beheld him, and with eager pace Flew to his arms, to meet a dear embrace : His wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's crown, And in herself a greater dower alone: Aetion's heir, who on the woody plain Of Hippoplacus did in Thebe reign. Breathless she flew, with joy and passion wild; The nurse came lagging after with the child.

The royal babe upon her breast was laid; Who, like the morning star, ,his beams display'd. Scamandrius was his name, which Hector gave, From that fair flood which Ilion's wall did lave? But him Astyanax the Trojans call, From his great father, who defends the wall.

Hector beheld him with a silent smile : His tender wife stood weeping by the while: Press'd in her own, his warlike hand she took, Then sigh'd, and thus prophetically spoke.

Thy dauntless heart (which I foresee too
late)

Too daring man, will urge thee to thy fate:
Nor dost thou pity with a parent's mind,
This helpless orphan, whom thou leav'st behind;
Nor me, the unhappy partner of thy bed,
Who must in triumph by the Greeks be led;
They seek thy life, and, in unequal fight
With many, will oppress thy single might:
Better it were for miserable me

To die before the fate which I foresee.
For ah! what comfort can the world bequeath
To Hector's widow, after Hector's death?

Eternal sorrow and perpetual tears
Began my youth, and will conclude my years:
I have no parents, friends, nor brothers left;
By stern Achilles all of life bereft.

Then when the walls of Thebes he overthew,
His fatal hand my royal father slew:
He slew Aetion, but despoil'd him not;
Nor in his hate the funeral rites forgot;
Arm'd as he was he sent him whole below,
And reverenc'd thus the manes of his foe:
A tomb he rais'd; the mountain nymphs around
Enclos'd with planted elms the holy ground.

My seven brave brothers in one fatal day To death's dark mansions took the mournful way;

Slain by the same Achilles, while they keep
The bellowing oxen and the bleating sheep.
My mother, who the royal sceptre sway'd,
Was captive to the cruel victor made,
And hither led; but hence redeem'd with gold,
Her native country did again behold,
And but beheld: for soon Diana's dart,
In an unhappy chase, transfix'd her heart.
But thou, my Hector, art thyself alone
My parents, brothers, and my lord in one.
O kill not all my kindred o'er again
Nor tempt the dangers of the dusty plain;
But in this tower, for our defence, remain.
Thy wife and son are in thy ruin lost :
This is a husband's and a father's post.
The Scran gate commands the plains below;
Here marshal all thy soldiers as they go.
And hence with other hands repel the foe
By yon wild fig-tree lies their chief ascent,
And thither all their powers are daily bent;
The two Ajases have I often seen,
And the wrong'd husband of the Spartan queen:
With him his greater brother; and with these
Fierce Diomede and bold Meriones:
Uncertain if by augury, or chance,
But by this easy rise they all advance;

Guard well that pass, secure of all beside.
To whom the noble Hector thus replied.
That and the rest are in my daily care:
But, should I shun the dangers of the war,
With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains,
And their proud ladies with their sweeping
trains

The Grecian swords and lances I can bear;
But loss of honour is my only fear.
Shall Hector, born to war, his birthright yield,
Belie his courage, and forsake the field?
Early in rugged arms I took delight,
And still have been the foremost in the fight:
With dangers dearly have I bought renown,
And am the champion of my father's crown,
And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage,
That Troy shall perish by the Grecian rage.
The fatal day draws on, when I must fall,
And universal ruin cover all.

Not Troy itself, though built by hands divine,
Nor Priam, nor his people, nor his line,
My mother, nor my brothers of renown,
Whose valour yet defends the unhappy town;
Not these, nor all their fates which I foresee,
Are half of that concern I have for thee.
I see, I see thee, in that fatal hour,
Subjected to the victor's cruel power;
Led hence a slave to some insulting sword,
Forlorn, and trembling at a foreign lord;
A spectacle in Argos, at the loom,
Gracing with Trojan fights a Grecian room;
Or from deep wells the living stream to take,
And on thy weary shoulders bring it back.
While groaning under this laborious life,
They insolently call thee Hector's wife;
Upbraid thy bondage with thy husband's name:
And from my glory propagate thy shame.
This when they say, thy sorrows will increase
With anxious thoughts of former happiness;
That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress.
But I, oppress'd with iron sleep before,
Shall hear thy unavailing cries no more.

He said

Then, holding forth his arms, he took his boy,
The pledge of love and other hope of Troy.
The fearful infant turn'd his head away,
And on his nurse's neck reclining lay,
His unknown father shunning with affright,
And looking back on so uncouth a sight;
Daunted to see a face with steel o'er-spread,
And his high plume that nodded o'er his head.
His sire and mother smil'd with silent joy;
And Hector hasten'd to relieve his boy;
Dismiss'd his burnish'd helm, that shone afar,
The pride of warriors, and the pomp of war:
The illustrious babe, thus reconcil'd, he took:
Hugg'd in his arms, and kiss'd, and thus he
spoke.

Parent of gods and men, propitious Jove,
And you bright synod of the powers above;
On this my son your gracious gifts bestow;
Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow,
To reign in Troy, to govern with renown,
To shield thy people, and assert the crown:
That when hereafter he from wars shall come,
And bring his Trojans peace and triumph
home,

Some aged man, who lives this act to see,
And who in former times remember'd me,
May say, The son in fortitude and fame
Outgoes the mark, and drowns his father's

name:

That at these words his mother may rejoice, And add her suffrage to the public voice.

Thus having said,

He first with suppliant hands the gods ador'd: Then to the mother's arms the child restor❜d: With tears and smiles she took her son, and press'd

The illustrious infant to her fragrant breast.

He, wiping her fair eyes, indulg'd her grief,
And eas'd her sorrows with this last relief.
My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away,
Nor give so bad on omen to the day;
Think not it lies in any Grecian's power
To take my life before the fatal hour.
When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly
The irrevocable doom of destiny.
Return, and, to divert thy thoughts at home,
There task thy maids, and exercise the loom,
Employ'd in works that womankind become.
The toils of war, and feats of chivalry
Belong to men, and most of all to me.

At this, for new replies he did not stay,
But lac'd his crested helm, and strode away.
His lovely consort to her house return'd,
And looking often back in silence mourn'd:
Home when she came, her secret wo she

vents,

And fills the palace with her loud laments; These loud laments her echoing maids restore, And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.

CANTO I.

THE ART OF POETRY.

ADVERTISMENT.

This translation of Monsieur Boileau's Art of Poetry was made in the year 1680, by Sir William Soame of Suffolk, Baronet; who being very intimately acquainted with Mr. Dryden, desired his revisal of it. I saw the manuscript lie in Mr. Dryden's hands for above six months, who made very considerable alterations in it, particularly the beginning of the fourth Canto: and it being his opinion that it would be better to apply the poem to English writers, than keep to the French names, as it was first translated, Sir William de

sired he would take the pains to make that alteration; and accordingly that was entirely done by Mr. Dryden.

The poem was first published in the year 1683; Sir William was after sent ambassador to Constantinople, in the reign of king James, but died in the voyage.

J. T.

RASH author, 't is a vain presumptuous crime,
To undertake the sacred art of rhyme;
If at thy birth the stars that rul'd thy sense
Shone not with a poetic influence;

In thy strait genius thou wilt still be bound,
Find Phoebus deaf, and Pegasus unsound.

You then that burn with the desire to try
The dangerous course of charming poetry;
Forbear in fruitless verse to lose your time,
Or take for genius the desire of rhyme;

Fear the allurements of a specious bait,
And well consider your own force and weight.
Nature abounds in wits of every kind,
And for each author can a talent find:
One may in verse describe an amorous flame,
Another sharpen a short epigram:
Waller a hero's mighty acts extol,
Spenser sing Rosalind in pastoral:

But authors that themselves too much esteem,
Lose their own genius, and mistake their theme;
Thus in times past Dubartas vainly writ,
Allaying sacred truth with trifling wit,
Impertinently, and without delight,
Describ'd the Israelites' triumphant flight,
And following Moses o'er the sandy plain,
Perish'd with Pharoah in the Arabian main.

Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime, Always let sense accompany your rhyme : Falsely they seem each other to oppose; Rhyme must be made with reason's laws to

close:

And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course;
To reason's yoke she quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine:
But if neglected will as easily stray,
And master reason, which she should obey.

Love reason then; and let whate'er you write Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light. Most writers, mounted on a resty muse, Extravagant and senseless objects choose; They think they err, if in their verse they fall On any thought that's plain or natural: Fly this excess; and let Italians be Vain authors of false glittering poetry. All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain: You drown, if to the right or left you stray; Reason to go as often but one way. Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought, Pursues its object till it's over-wrought: If he describes a house, he shows the face, And after walks you round from place to place; Here is a vista, there the doors unfold, Balconies here are ballustred with gold; Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls, "The festoons, friezes, and the astragals :" Tir'd with his tedious pomp, away I run, And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone. Of such descriptions the vain folly see, And shun their barren superfluity. All that is needless carefully avoid; The mind once satisfied is quickly cloy'd: He cannot write who knows not to give o'er ; To mend one fault he makes a hundred more: A verse was weak, you turn it, much too strong, And grow obscure, for fear you should be long. Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry; Not to be low, another soars too high. Would you of every one deserve the praise, In writing vary your discourse and phrase; A frozen style, that neither ebbs nor flows, Instead of pleasing makes us gape and doze. Those tedious authors are esteem'd by none, Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone. Happy who in his verse can gently steer From grave to light, from pleasant to severe : His works will be admir'd wherever found, And oft with buyers will be compass'd round. In all you write be neither low nor vile: The meanest theme may have a proper style. The dull burlesque appear'd with impudence, And pleas'd by novelty in spite of sense. All, except trivial points, grew out of date; Parnassus spoke the cant of Billingsgate : Boundless and mad, disorder'd rhyme was seen; Disguis'd Apollo chang'd to Harlequin. This plague, which first in country towns began, Cities and kingdoms quickly over-ran; The dullest scribblers some admirers found, And the Mock Tempest was a while renown'd: But this low stuff the town at last despis'd, And scorn'd the folly that they once had priz'd; Distinguish'd dull from natural and plain, And left the villages to Fleckno's reign.

Let not so mean a style your muse debase;
But learn from Butler the buffooning grace:
And let burlesque in ballads be employ'd;
Yet noisy bombast carefully avoid,
Nor think to raise, though on Pharsalia's plain,
"Millions of mourning mountains of the slain :"
Nor with Dubartas bridle up the floods.
And perriwig with wool the baldpate woods.
Choose a just style; be grave without con-
straint,

Great without pride, and lovely without paint: Write, what your reader may be pleas'd to hear:

And for the the measure have a careful ear.
On easy numbers fix your happy choice;
Of jarring sounds avoid the odious noise:
The fullest verse and the most labour'd sense
Displease us, if the ear once take offence.
Our ancient verse, as homely as the times,
Was rude, unmeasur'd, overclogg'd with rhymes.
Number and cadence, that have since been

shown,

To those unpolish'd writers were unknown.
Fairfax was he, who, in that darker age,
By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage;
Spenser did next in Pastorals excel,
And taught the noble art of writing well;
To stricter rules the stanza did restrain,
And found for poetry a richer vein.
Then D'Avenant came; who, with a new-
found art,

Chang'd all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart:
His haughty muse all others did despise,
And thought in triumph to bear off the prize,
Till the sharp-sighted critics of the times,
In their Mock-Gondibert, expos'd his rhymes;
The laurels he pretended did refuse,
And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring muse.
This headstrong writer falling from on high,
Made following authors take less liberty.
Waller came last, but was the first whose art
Just weight and measure did to verse impart;
That of a well-plac'd word could teach the
force,

And show'd for poetry a nobler course:
His happy genius did our tongue refine,
And easy words with pleasing numbers join:
His verses to good method did apply,
And chang'd hard discord to soft harmony.
All own'd his laws; which, long approv'd and
tried,

To present authors now may be a guide.
Tread boldly in his steps, secure from fear,
And be, like him, in your expressions clear.
If in your verse you drag, and sense delay,
My patience tires, my fancy goes astray;
And from your vain discourse I turn my mind,
Nor search an author troublesome to find.

There is a kind of writer pleas'd with sound, Whose fustian head with clouds is compass'd round,

No reason can disperse them with its light:
Learn then to think ere you pretend to write.
As your idea 's clear, or else obscure,
The expression follows perfect or impure:
What we conceive with ease we can express :
Words to the notions flow with readiness.

Observe the language well in all you write,
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight.
The smoothest verse and the exactest sense
Displease us, if ill English give offence:
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love.
In short, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit or delight.
Take time for thinking; never work in haste;
And value not yourself for writing fast.
A rapid poem, with such fury writ,
Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleas'd we are to see a river lead
His gentle streams along a flow'ry mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters on a muddy shore.
Gently make haste, of labour not afraid;
A hundred times consider what you've said:
Polish, repolish, every colour lay,

And sometimes add, but oftener take away.
'T is not enough when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are scatter'd sparks of wit:
Each object must be fix'd in the due place,
And differing parts have corresponding grace:
Till by a curious art dispos'd, we find
One perfect whole, of all the pieces join'd.
Keep to your subject close in all you say;
Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.
The public censure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic most severe.
Fantastic wits their darling follies love:
But find you faithful friends that will reprove,
That on your works may look with careful eyes,
And of your faults be zealous enemies :
Lay by an author's pride and vanity,
And from a friend a flatterer descry,

Reprove of words the too affected sound;
Here the sense flags, and your expression's
round,

Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain
Your terms improper, make them just and plain.
Thus, 't is a faithful friend will freedom use;
But authors, partial to their darling muse,
Think to protect it they have just pretence,
And at your friendly counsel take offence.
Said you of this, that the expression's flat?
Your servant, Sir, you must excuse me that,
He answers you. This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out: That, Sir, 's the properest
place.

This turn I like not; "T is approv'd by all.
Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a syllable of which you doubt,
'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out.
Yet still he says you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is absolute:
But of his feign'd humility take heed;
"T is a bait laid to make you hear him read.
And when he leaves you happy in his muse,
Restless he runs some other to abuse,
And often finds; for in our scribbling times
No fool can want a sot to praise his rhymes;
The flattest work has ever in the court
Met with some zealous ass for his support;
And in all times a forward scribbling fop
Has found some greater fool to cry him up.

CANTO II.

PASTORAL.

As a fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents,
Gathers from neighb'ring fields her ornaments;
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral:
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verse:

Who seems to like, but means not what he There native beauty pleases, and excites,

says;

Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.
A sycophant will every thing admire:
Each verse, each sentence sets his soul on fire:
All is divine! there's not a word amiss!
He shakes with joy, and weeps with tenderness,
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways:
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedless errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verse to rule and order will confine.

And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights. But in this style a poet often spent,

In

rage throws by his rural instrument, And vainly, when disorder'd thoughts abound, Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet sound: Pan flies alarm'd into the neighbouring woods, And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods, Oppos'd to this another, low in style, Makes shepherds speak a language base and vile:

His writings, flat and heavy, without sound, Kissing the earth, and creeping on the ground;

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