Who, swoln with selfish vanity, devise
False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow-slaves to tyrannize.

But if in court so just a man there be,
(In court a just man, yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to oppress and ruin, but protect;
Since flattery, which way soever laid,
Is still a tax on that unhappy trade;
If so upright a statesman you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbiass'd mind;
Who does his arts and policies apply,
To raise his country, not his family.
Is there a churchman, who on God relies,
Whose life his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one blown up with vain prelatic pride,
Who, for reproof of sins, does man deride;
Whose envious heart, with saucy eloquence,
Dares chide at kings, and rail at men of sense;
Who from his pulpit vents more peevish lies;
More bitter railings, scandals, calumnies,
Than at a gossiping are thrown about,

}

When the good wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of the sensual tribe, whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, in sloth, and gluttony;
Who hunt good livings, but abhor good lives;
Whose lust exalted to that height arrives,
They act adultery with their own wives;
And ere a score of years completed be,
Can from the lofty pulpit proudly see
Half a large parish their own progeny.
Nor doating bishop, who would be ador'd.
For domineering at the council-board;
A greater fop, in business at fourscore,
Fonder of serious toys, affected more,
Than the gay glittering fool at twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdry cloaths, and gloves.
But a meek, humble man, of modest sense,
Who, preaching peace, does practise continence:
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe
Mysterious truths, which no man can conceive.
If upon earth there dwell such godlike men,

I'll here recant my paradox to them,
Adore those shrines of virtue, homage pay,
And with the thinking world their laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man, differs more from man, than man from beast.

ROSCOMMON.

WENTWORTH

ENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON, WUPde im Jahre 1633 in Irland, während der Statthalterschaft des Grafen von Strafford, seines Oheims, geboren. Er erhielt den ersten Unterricht auf dem Landsitze des letztern, in Yorkshire, wurde aber, als die Verfolgungen dieses Mannes begannen, nach der protestantischen Universität Caen, in der ehemaligen Normandie, gesandt, wo unter anderu der be rühmte Bochart sein Lehrer war. Hierauf durchreiste er Italien, und hielt sich eine geraume Zeit zu Rom auf, wo er vorzüglich Alterthümer studierte. Nach der Restauration kehrte er, nebst andern Freunden der Monarchie, wieder in sein Vaterland zurück, und wurde hier als Hauptmann angestellt. Er legte indessen diesen Posten bald wieder nieder, da ihn ein Streit wegen eines Theils seines Vermögens nach Irland zu reisen nöthigte. Nachdem er seine Geschäfte beendigt hatte, kehrte er nach London zurück, und wurde Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York. Die schlechte

Prosa, welche im Ganzen genommen bisher in England geschrieben worden war, brachte ihn ungefähr um diese Zeit auf den Gedanken, die Englische Sprache durch eine Sprachakademie zu fixiren, die nach dem Muster der seit 1582 zu Florenz bestehenden Accademia della Crusca, die er in Italien kennen gelernt hatte, eingerichtet werden sollte. Man sagh, dafs Dryden ihm hierbei hülfreiche Hand geleistet habe. Die Unruhen unter Jakob's II Regierung verhinderten in dessen die Ausführung dieser Idee. Aus Furcht, dafs eine heftige Staatserschütterung bevorstände, wollte sich der Graf wieder nach Rom begeben; allein das Podagra überfiel ihn. Ein ungeschickter Französischer Arzt trieb ihm dasselbe in don Leib, und veranlasste so seinen Tod, welcher 1684 erfolgte. Roscommon wurde in der Westminsterabtei mit

grofsem Pomp begraben. In dem Augenblick, wo er seinea Geist auszuhauchen im Begriff war, wiederholte er mit der inbrünstigsten Andacht folgende einfach-schöne Zeilen aus seiner Übersetzung des Hymnus auf den jüngsten Tag: My God! my Father! and my Friend!

Do not forsake me at my end.

Roscommon gehört zu den korrektesten Dichtern der Engländer. Sein vorzüglichstes Werk ist sein Essay on translated verse, ein artistisches Lehrgedicht über die Kunst zu übersezzen, welches zwar nicht reich an neuen Ideen ist, aber durch einen edeln, männlichen und eindrucksvollen Lehrton gefällt. Geringern Werth hat seine Übersetzung des Horazischen Briefs an die Pisonen. Unter seinen kleinen Gedichten verdient die Übersetzung des vorhin gedachten Hymnus, die einer Scene aus Guarini's Pastor Fido und einer Ekloge Virgil's genannt zu werden. Johnson füllt (Lives of the English Poets, Vol. I.) folgendes Urtheil über ihn: Roscommon is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into great 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 he numbered among the benefactors of the English literature. Roscommon's Werke ber finden sich in der Johnsonschen Sammlung; bei Ander son nehmen sie einen Theil des 6ten Bandes, und bei Bell den 43sten Theil ein.

AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

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 blest the land;
The choicest books that Rome or Greece have known,
Her excellent translators made her own;

End 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 shew the world a nobler way,
And in translated verse do more than they.
Serene and clear, harmonious Horace flows,

With sweetness not to be exprest in prose:
Degrading prose explains his meaning till,

And shews the stuff, but not the workman's skill;
I (who have serv'd 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:
'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 shine.

I speak my private but impartial sense,

With freedom, and (I hope) without offence;

For I'll recant when France can shew 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 purg'd 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 perform'd 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;

२

Exploded, when, with universal scorn,
The mountains labour'd and a mouse was born.
Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny wrestler cries,
Audacious mortals, and be timely wise!

'Tis I that call, remember Milo's end,

Wedg'd in that timber which he strove to rend.
Each poet with a different talent writes;
One praises, one instructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er aspire to Epic bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyric lays.
Examine how your humour is inĉlin'd,'
And which the ruling passion of your mind;
Then, seek a poet who your way does bend,
And choose an author as you choose a friend;
United by this sympathetic bond,

You grow familiar, intimate, and fond;

Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls agree,
No longer his interpreter, but he.

With how much ease is a young Muse betray'd!
How nice the reputation of the maid!... ́
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear,
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear.
Secure from foolish pride's affected state,
And specious flattery's more pernicious bait,
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your neglect must answer for her faults.
Immodest words admit of no defence;

For want of decency is want of sense.

What moderate fop would rake the park or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose?
Variety of such is to be found;

Take then a subject proper to expound:
But moral, great and worth a poet's voice;
For men of sense despise a trivial choice;
And such applause it must expect to meet,
As would some painter busy in a street,
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.