Sometimes for oracles yet more profound, What though worn out in pleasures old and stale, Had that, now silent, muse been but so kind star. Not that the conscience-shackle tied so hard, So have I in the Muses garden seen Those winged foragers for their fragrant prey, The lordly leader of his bleating troop. These doctrines our young Sullenists preach round, The texts which their poetic silence found. But why the doctor of their chair, why thou, Their great rabbinic voice, thus silent too? Could Noll's once meteor glories blaze so fair, To make thee that all-prostrate zealot there? Strange, that that fiery nose could boast that charm Thy muse with those seraphic raptures warm! And our fair Albion star to shine so bleak, Her radiant influence so chill, so weak! Gorged with his riotous festival of fame, Could thy weak stomach pule at Mary's name! Or was thy junior palate more canine, And now in years grows squeamish, and more fine! Fie, peevish-niggard, with thy flowing store To play the churl,-excuse thy shame no more. No. IX. VERSES OCCASIONED BY READING MR. DRYDEN'S FABLES. INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. BY MR. JABEZ HUGHES. Museum ante omnes, medium nam plurima turba TO THE READER. 1720-1, March. It is now almost fourteen years since these lines were first written; and as I had no thought of making them public, I laid them aside among other papers; where they had still continued private, if it had not, in a manner, become my duty to print them, by the noble regard which is paid to Mr. Dryden's memory, by his grace the Duke of Buckingham, who, to his high quality, has added the liberal distinction of having long been at once both an eminent patron of elegant literature, and the most accomplished judge and pattern of it. It might indeed seem an adventurous presumption to offer so trivial a poem to his Grace's view; but he who is able to instruct the most skilful writer, will have benevolence enough to forgive the imperfections of the weakest, and to consider the inscribing these slight verses to his Grace, merely as a respectful acknowledgment of the common obligation he has laid upon all who have a true value for English poetry, by thus honouring the remains of a man who advanced it so highly, and is so justly celebrated for beauty of imagination, and force and delicacy of expression and numbers. I must also observe, that I have had the happiness to see one part of these verses abundantly disproved by Mr. Pope, and accordingly I retract it with pleasure; for that admirable author, who evidently inherits the bright invention, and the harmonious versification of Mr. Dryden, has increased the reputation his other ingenious writings had obtained him, by the permanent fame of having finished a translation of the Iliad of Homer, with surprising genius and merit. . UPON READING MR. DRYDEN'S FABLES. OUR great forefathers, in poetic song, Were rude in diction, though their sense was strong; Well-measured verse they knew not how to frame, Their words ungraceful, and the cadence lame. Too far they wildly ranged to start the prey, And did too much of Fairy-land display; And in their rugged dissonance of lines, True manly thought debased with trifles shines. Each gaudy flower that wantons on the mead, Must not appear within the curious bed; But nature's chosen birth should flourish there, And with their beauties crown the sweet parterre. Such was the scene, when Dryden came to found grace. More perfect lays, with harmony of sound: |