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Or, mixt with milder Cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below?
Or do'st thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, so ye heavens decree,
Must still be lov'd, and still deplor'd by me),
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,

Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.

If business calls, or crowded courts invite,

Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,

I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there:

If pensive to the rural shades I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
'Twas there of Just and Good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,

A candid censor, and a friend severe;

There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance tl e sudden tears?

How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the gloom beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
From other ills, however fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the muse's art I found:
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing,
And these sad accents murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid,
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring Sage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell.
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

THOMAS TICkell

TRANSLATIONS.

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.

[OF Addison's translations Johnson says:-"His translations, so far as I have compared them, want the exactness of a scholar. That he understood his authors cannot be doubted: but his verses will not teach others to understand them, being too licentiously paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most part, smooth and easy; and what is the first excellence of a translator, such as may be read with pleasure by those who do not know the original." The same critic also remarks:-"In his Georgick he admits broken lines." Dryden's compliment has been accused of insincerity. After speaking of two poets who had put him to great labor by their superior merit ·~“The most ingenious Mr. Addison, of Oxford, has also been as troublesome to me as the other two, and on the same account. After his bees my latter swarm is hardly worth the hiving.”

year,

These translations were made at Oxford, and published in Tonson's Miscellanies. A letter of Addison to Tonson without the date of the gives us the origin of the translations from Ovid. "Your discussion with me about translating Ovid, made such an impression on me at my first coming down from London, that I ventured on the second book, which I turned at my leisure hours, and will give you a ŝight of it if you will give yourself the trouble of reading it.”—G } G}

A TRANSLATION OF ALL

VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGICK,

EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTEUS.

ETHERIAL Sweets shall next my muse engage,a
And this, Mecenas, claims your patronage.
Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat,
The ranks and mighty leaders of their state,
Their laws, employments, and their wars relate.
A trifling theme, provokes my humble lays.
Trifling the theme, not so the poet's praise,
If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
Join in the piece, to make the work divine.

First, for your bees a proper station find,
That's fenc'd about, and shelter'd from the wind;
For winds divert them in their flight, and drive
The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive.
Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores,
To trample under foot the springing flowers;

Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,

To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grass :

a Etherial sweets. The following version, though it be exact enough, for the most part, and not inelegant, gives us but a faint idea of the original. It has the grace, but not the energy, of Virgil's manner. The late Translator of the Georgics* has succeeded much better. The versification (except only the bad rhymes) may be excused; for the frequent triplets and alexandrines (which Dryden's laziness, by the favour of his exuberant genius, had introduced) were esteemed, when this translation was made, not blemishes, but beauties.

VOL 1.--2

*Mr. Nevile.

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