V. The Works of Horace, in English Verfe, by Mr. Duncombe, Sen. J. Duncombe, M. A. and other Hands. With Notes Hiftorical and Critical. The Second Edition. To which is added, many Imitations, now first published. 12mo. Pr. 125. White.

HE editor informs us, that having, for above thirty

Tyears, amufed himfelf, at different times, by trank

lating now and then an ode of Horace, as it happened to strike his fancy, he at last entertained the thought of completing the four books of Odes, and the Secular Ode, partly from his own translations, and partly by adopting fuch verfions and imitations as he despaired to equal; that by the affiftance of his fon he was enabled to accomplish this defign; and that afterwards, by the advice of fome learned friends, the Epodes, Satires, Epiftles, and Art of Poetry were added, in order to make the work complete.

In this edition about fifty new Imitations are inferted; and most of the Satires and Epiftles, that were in blank verse, are put into rhyme.

None of the Odes are here tranflated into the common heroic measure. This, as Mr. Duncombe obferves, would have been improper, as they were originally defigned for mufic: a circumstance to which fome of our best tranflators have not attended.

In the new tranflations the authors have attempted to trace the original as clofely as they could, confiftently with the genius and elegance of the English language; and have taken particular care to avoid one fault, which, though countenanced by modern practice, is always offenfive to a judicious ear; that is, the promiscuous ufe of you and thou.

In many of these Imitations there is the true Horatian spirit. Several of the Odes, which are mere bagatelles, feem to be enlivened by a new application, and additional touches of delicacy and humour. Others, which commemorate the victories of Auguftus, are happily accommodated to fome of the late remarkable atchievements of the British arms. But as we have here the productions of many * different writers, it is not to be imagined that they are all diftinguished by an equal share of poetical

* Mr. Dryden, Mr. Pope, Dr. Swift, Bifhop Atterbury, Mr. Prior, Mr. Walsh, Lord Rofcommon, Sir Richard Steele, Mr. Pitt, Lord Corke, Dr. Lowth, Mr. B. Booth, Mr. Hamilton of Bangour, Mr. I. H. Browne, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Broxholm, Mr. G. Jeffreys, Mrs. Carter, Mr. Hughes, Dr. Marriot, Mr,

Mulfo,

poetical merit. Some of them are evidently inferior to the tranflations of Mr. Francis; and, without doubt, this collection might have been improved, if the compiler had been at liberty to select his materials from the works of all his predeceffors.

In a note on the following Ode, Mr. Duncombe observes, that the judicious tranflator has given us the genuine fenfe, with the fpirit and delicacy of the original.

By Sir JEFFERY GILBERT, Knt.
Late Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.

• Dire Hannibal, the Roman dread,

Numantian wars, which rag'd fo long,
And feas with Punic flaughter red,
Suit not the loftier Lyric fong.

• Nor favage Centaurs, mad with wine,
Nor earth's enormous rebel brood,
Who shook with fear the powers divine,
'Till by Alcides' arms fubdu'd.
Better, Mæcenas, thou in profe

Shalt Cæfar's glorious battles tell ;
With what bold heat the victor glows,
What captive kings his triumphs fwell.
Thy mistress all my mufe employs ;
Licinia's voice, her fprightly turns,
The fire that sparkles in her eyes,
And in her faithful bofom burns.

• When she adorns Diana's day,

And all the beauteous choirs advance,
With sweetest airs, divinely gay,

She fhines, diftinguish'd in the dance!

• Not all Arabia's spicy fields

Can with Licinia's breath compare ;
Nor India's felf a treasure yields,

To purchase one bright flowing hair :

Mulfo, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Shard, Mr. S. Jenyns, Sir Jeffrey Gilbert, Mr. Roderick, Mr. E. B. Greene, Mr. Fawkes, Mr. W. Cooper. Mr. Nevile, Mr. Needler, Mr. Harrison, Mr. Cuffe, Mr. Whalley, Mr. Say, Bishop Stone, Meff. and Mrs. Duncombe, and many anonymous writers.

• When

• When she with bending neck complies
To meet the lover's eager kifs,

With gentle cruelty denies,

Or fnatches firft the fragrant blifs.'

Book ii. Ode 12.

We have no occasion to detract from the character which the editor has given of this tranflation; yet we will venture to fay, that there is as much delicacy and vivacity in the following Imitation (though not admitted into this collection) as there is in any of those which are here inferted.

To Lord ****

Of battles won, and kings in chains,
Let other poets fing,

To nobler themes, in nobler strains,
More lofty sweep the string.

Too harsh are thofe for me: my youth
A gentler goddess warms,
To fing of innocence and truth,
To fing Licinia's charms.
Licinia, chearful, easy, gay,
Amid the virgin throng,
Who blushes not to join the play,
The jeft, the dance, the fong.
O fay, what hearts thy beauty fires,
When in the dance you move;
When heav'nly gracefulness inspires
The tenderness of love?

Wou'd you, my Lord, for all the ores
Arabia's mines contain,

For all the yellow waving ftores
That gild fat Phrygia's plain;

For thefe, for all that's rich or rare,
'Twixt Ganges and the Rhine,
Wou'd you, from bright Licinia's hair,
A fingle braid refign?

While on her neck it loosely plays,
(Her neck tow'rds you reclin'd)
While ev'ry look and gefture fays
She's going to be kind;

* Vide Student, Vol. i.

Now

The last ode of the first book is one of thofe bagatelles to

which we alluded above.

This imitation of it is not amis;

To a

COOK MAI D.

• The neatness of Batavian Frows,

Their mops and pails in endless rows,
I hate, and fuffer in this room,
A duster only and a broom.

• Each Saturday, on hands and knees,
Scour, fcrub your kitchen, if you please;
But where I fit, and where I lie,

This floor, Rebecca, fhall be dry.'

The fourteenth ode of the fecond book, On the mortality of the human race, is humorously applied by the late Lord Corke to the fate of literary productions.

Ebeu, fugaces, &c. imitated.

How swift, alas! the rolling years
Hafte to devour their deftin'd prey!
A moth each winged moment bears,
Which still in vain the ftationers

From the dead authors fweep away;
And troops of canker-worms, with fecret pride,
Thro' gay vermillion leaves and gilded covers glide,
• Great Bavius, fhould thy critic vein

Each day supply the teeming press,
Should'st thou of ink whole rivers drain,
Not one octavo fhall remain,

To fhew thy learning and address:
Oblivion drags them to her filent cell,
Where brave king Arthur and his nobles dwell.

• Authors of every size and name;

Knights, 'fquires, and doctors of all colours,
From the pursuit of lafting fame

Retiring, there a manfion claim :

Behold the fate of modern scholars !

Why will you, then, with hope delufive led,

For various readings toil, which never will be read!

• With

• With filver clafp and corner-plate,

You fortify the favourite book :
Fear not from worms or time your fate!
More cruel foes your works await :

The butler, with th' impatient cook,

And pastry-nymphs, with trunk-makers, combine
To eafe the groaning shelves, and spoil the fair design.'

The seventh Ode of the third book is imitated with great humour and ingenuity by an unknown hand.

To Mrs.

• Weep not, O peerlefs wife! in vain,
Your dear, whom diftant lands detain,
Your kind, your constant spousy ;
Blefs'd with the forfeit wealth of Spain,
Kind gales will give him us again,
And from affliction roufe ye.

Still, though remote, his love is true,
Sole emprefs of his heart are you,
No other fhe can win him;
For you he waftes cold nights, I know,
In tears, and toffing to and fro,
As if old Nick was in him.

The toilet-damfel, where he lives,
Tells him how fore her lady grieves,
At his unkind disdaining;
Says, ill-tim'd virtue never thrives,
Decries the homely love of wives,

And deafs him with complaining.
She fets before his eyes by rote,
How prudifh Jofeph loft his coat,
And far'd yet worse, refufing;
Nor is poor Peleus' cafe forgot,
Who (troth!) had well nigh gone to pot,
For proffer'd love mifufing.

With tales encouraging to fin,
She thus eternally puts in;

He fighs for you, and hears 'em ;
Yet never the his heart could win,
Firm as a rock he yet has been,
And dangers, he ne'er fears 'em.