TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the finest in our language: there is so little new that can be said upon the death of a friend, after the complaints of Ovid and the Latin Italians in this way, that one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to strike us, and so much interest to affect. COLIN AND LUCY.-A BALLAD. Through all Tickell's Works there is a strain of ballad-thinking, if I may so express it; and in this professed ballad he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. This ode, by Dr. Smollett, does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his taste. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not so perfect as so short a work as this requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine. ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRO- This, by Mr. Rowe, is better than any thing of the kind in our language. AN ESSAY ON POETRY. This work, by the Duke of Buckingham, is enrolled among our great English productions. The precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserves. CADENAS AND VANESSA. This is thought one of Dr. Swift's correctest pieces; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant ease with which a story, but ill conceived in itself, is ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller's time; so that this, which would be now looked upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was, told. with respect to the times in which it was written, almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader will chiefly be struck with the strength of thinking, and the turn of the compliments bestowed upon the usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles II. who asked him how his poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself? "Your Majesty," plies Waller, "knows that poets always succeed best in fiction." THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND re The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely turned. NIGHT THOUGHTS. BY DR. YOUNG. These seem to be the best of the collection; from whence only the first two are taken. They are spoken of differently, either with exaggerated applause or contempt, as the reader's disposition is either turned to mirth or melancholy. SATIRE I. Young's Satires were in higher reputation when published than they stand in at present. He seems MIND. Παντα γέλως, και πάντα κυνις, και πάντα το μηδέν What Prior meant by this poem I can't understand: by the Greek motto to it, one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine; and let them save the badness of the rest. PREFACE ΤΟ A COLLECTION OF POEMS, FOR YOUNG LADIES, DEVOTIONAL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAINING [First Printed in the year 1767.] DR. FORDYCE's excellent Sermons for Young Women in some measure gave rise to the following compilation. In that work, where he so judi ciously points out all the defects of female conduct to remedy them, and all the proper studies whici they should pursue, with a view to improvement, differ in this, that he mutilated with a bad design, poetry is one to which he particularly would at-I from motives of a contrary nature. tach them. He only objects to the danger of pur- It will be easier to condemn a compilation of this suing this charming study through all the immo-kind, than to prove its inutility. While young laralities and false pictures of happiness with which dies are readers, and while their guardians are soit abounds, and thus becoming the martyr of inno- licitous that they shall only read the best books, cent curiosity. there can be no danger of a work of this kind beIn the following compilation, care has been taken ing disagreeable. It offers, in a very small comto select not only such pieces as innocence may pass, the very flowers of our poetry, and that of a read without a blush, but such as will even tend kind adapted to the sex supposed to be its readers. to strengthen that innocence. In this little work, Poetry is an art which no young lady can or ought a lady may find the most exquisite pleasure, while to be wholly ignorant of. The pleasure which it she is at the same time learning the duties of life; gives, and indeed the necessity of knowing enough and, while she courts only entertainment, be de- of it to mix in modern conversation, will evince the ceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too usefulness of my design, which is to supply the great a boast in the preface to any original work; highest and the most innocent entertainment at the but here it can be made with safety, as every poem smallest expense; as the poems in this collection, in the following collection would singly have pro- if sold singly, would amount to ten times the price cured an author great reputation, of what I am able to afford the present. They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and Entertaining, thus comprehending the three great duties of life; that which we owe to God, to our neighbour, and to ourselves. CRITICISM ON MASSEY'S TRANSLATION OF THE FASTI OF OVID. [Published in the year 1757.] In the first part, it must be confessed, our English poets have not very much excelled. In that department, namely, the praise of our Maker, by which poetry began, and from which it deviated by time, we are most faultily deficient. There are one or two, however, particularly the Deity, by Mr. Boyse; a poem, when it first came out, that lay for some time neglected, till introduced to pub- It was no bad remark of a celebrated French lic notice by Mr. Hervey and Mr. Fielding. In lady,* that a bad translator was like an ignorant it the reader will perceive many striking pictures, footman, whose blundering messages disgraced his and perhaps glow with a part of that gratitude master by the awkwardness of the delivery, and which seems to have inspired the writer. frequently turned compliment into abuse, and In the moral part I am more copious, from the politeness into rusticity. We can not indeed see same reason, because our language contains a large an ancient elegant writer mangled and misreprenumber of the kind. Voltaire, talking of our poets, sented by the doers into English, without some gives them the preference in moral pieces to those degree of indignation; and are heartily sorry that of any other nation; and indeed no poets have bet- our poor friend Ovid should send his sacred kalenter settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely dar to us by the hands of Mr. William Massey, determined the rules for conduct in life than ours. who, like the valet, seems to have entirely forgot In this department, the fair reader will find the his master's message, and substituted another in Muse has been solicitous to guide her, not with its room very unlike it. Mr. Massey observes in the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of his preface, with great truth, that it is strange that friend. this most elaborate and learned of all Ovid's works In the entertaining part, my greatest difficulty should be so much neglected by our English translawas what to reject. The materials lay in such tors; and that it should be so little read or regarded, plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice: in this whilst his Tristia, Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are case, then, I was solely determined by the tenden- in almost every schoolboy's hands. "All the critics, cy of the poem: and where I found one, however in general," says he, "speak of this part of Ovid's well executed, that seemed in the least tending to writings with a particular applause; yet 1 know distort the judgment, or inflame the imagination, not by what unhappy fate there has not been that it was excluded without mercy. I have here and use made thereof, which would be more beneficial, there, indeed, when one of particular beauty offer-in may respects, to young students of the Latin ed with a few blemishes, lopped off the defects; tongue, than any other of this poet's works. For and thus, like the tyrant who fitted all strangers to though Pantheons, and other books that treat of the bed he had prepared for them, I have inserted a some, by first adapting them to my plan: we only | Madame La Fayette. the Roman mythology, may be usefully put into What use this translation may be of to grammar-schools, we can not pretend to guess, unless, by way of foil, to give the boys a higher opinion of the beauty of the original by the deformity of so bad a copy. But let our readers judge of Mr. Massey's performance by the following specimen. For the better determination of its merit, we shall subjoin the original of every quotation. "The calends of each month throughout the Vindicat Ausonias Junonis cura kalendas: year, Nonarum tutela Deo caret. Omnibus istis Ovid's address to Janus, than which in the original scarce any thing can be more poetical, is thus familiarized into something much worse than prose by the translator · Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year Dic, age, frigoribus quare novus incipit annus, Prodit et in summum seminis herba solum: Quæsieram multis: non multis ille moratus, Prima dies. Causam percipe, Janus ait. Nec plus quam solitum testificatur opus. Ad quoscunque velim prorsus, habere deos Et damus alternas accipimusque preces? Et visum primum consulit augur avem. 241 The day was spent, the sun was nearly set, When he arrived before Collatia's gate; Like as a friend, but with a sly intent, To Collatinus' house he boldly went; There he a kind reception met within From fair Lucretia, for they were akin. What ignorance attends the human mind! How oft we are to our misfortunes blind! Thoughtless of harm, she made a handsome feast, And o'er a cheerful glass regaled her guest With lively chat; and then to bed they went; But Tarquin still pursued his vile intent; All dark, about the dead of night he rose, And softly to Lucretia's chamber goes; His naked sword he carried in his hand, That what he could not win he might command; With rapture on her bed himself he threw, And as approaching to her lips he drew, Is there a possibility that any thing can be more Tis I, 'tis Tarquin; why are you afraid? Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said, different from Ovid in Latin than this Ovid in Trembling with fear, she not a word could say, English? Quam sibi dispar! The translation is Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away; indeed beneath all criticism. But let us see what Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude paws, Mr. Massey can do with the sublime and more animated parts of the performance, where the sub- What can she do? resistance would be vain, Appall'd and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws; ject might have given him room to show his skill, She a weak woman, he a vigorous man. and the example of his author stirred up the fire Should she cry out? his naked sword was by; of poetry in his breast, if he had any in it. To- One scream, said he, and you this instant die : wards the end of the second book of the Fasti, Would she escape? his hands lay on her breast, Ovid has introduced the most tender and interest-Now first by hands of any stranger press'd: ing story of Lucretia. The original is inimitable. The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers; Let us see what Mr. Massey has made of it in his But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she translation. After he has described Tarquin returning from the sight of the beautiful Lucretia, he proceeds thus: "The near approach of day the cock declared hears: Will you not yield? he cries; then know my will- Yet dread some fatal consequence to hear, Jam dederat cantum lucis prænuncius ales Hic decor, hæc facies, hic color oris erat. Comparat indigno vimque dolumque toro. Functus erat dapibus: poscunt sua tempora somni. Et venit in thalamos, nupta pudica, tuos. Sed tremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relictis, Nunc primum externa pectora tacta manu. Illa diu reticet, pudibundaque celat amictu Ora. Fluunt lacrymæ more perennis aqua. Our readers will easily perceive by this short specimen, how very unequal Mr. Massey is to a translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infinitely below the strength, elegance, and spirit of the original. We must beg leave, therefore, to remind him of the old Italian proverb,* and hope he will Il Tradattores Tradatore. never for the future traduce and injure any of those poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pestering the world with such translations as even his own school-boys ought to be whipped for. CRITICISM ON BARRET'S TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES. [Published in 1759.] The praise which is every day lavished upon Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been considered as models of beauty; to praise them now is only to show the conformity of our tastes to theirs; it tends not to advance their reputation, but to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the present, the pedantry of panegyric ;- Ovid needs it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves. It will be sufficient to observe, that the multitude of translators which have attempted this poet serves to evince the number of his admirers; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling his elegance or his ease. Dryden, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged, solicited the assistance of his friends for a translation of these epistles. It was not the first time his miseries obliged him to call in happier bards to his aid; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting performances on the lasting merit of his name. This eleemosynary translation, as might well be expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poet's meaning, almost always so to his fame. It was published without notes; for it was not at that time customary to swell every performance of this nature with comment and scholia. The read. er did not then choose to have the current of hi passions interrupted, his attention every moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed why he was so pleased. It was not then thought necessary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like some spectators we have met at the play-house, to take off our attent on from the performance, by telling in our ear, what will follow next. Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to misfortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses, being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters unacquainted with English, and sometimes transversed by ladies who knew no Latin: thus he has alternately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake; either crawling in humble prose, or having his hints ex |