Classic Poem

On his several excellent Translations of the Ancient Poets.

As flow'rs transplanted from a southern sky
But hardly bear, or in the raising die;
Missing their native sun at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive with pain;
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image and a senseless draught:
While we transfuse the nimble spirit flies,
Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
Who then to copy Roman wit desire
Must imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of style and phrase the same,
And in the sparkling genius and the flame:
Whence we conclude, from thy translated song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Celestial Poet! soul of Harmony!
That ev'ry Genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to heav'n their flight:
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays, they shine;
All glorify'd, immortal, and divine.

As Britain in rich soil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton sails on ev'ry shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still of more,
To her own wool the silks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests Indian mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own Works, tho' an immortal name,
To lands remote sends forth his learned Muse,
The noblest seeds of foreign wit to chuse.
Feasting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is 't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might see
Who most excell'd are yet excell'd by thee.