[307] Jam minæ sævi cecidere belli, Jam prophanatis male pulsa terris Et salus, & pax.
he goes on thus,
——niveis revisit Oppida bigis.
Then comes, a little after:
[308] Grandinat gemmis, riguoque cælum Depluit auro.
The Verses are smooth and sonorous; only they have the Misfortune to want common Sense. But in another Ode he is much happier, unless, perhaps, a little too bold:
[309] Vive, jucundæ metuens juventæ, Crispe Lævini; fugiunt avaræ Mensium lunæ, nimiumque volvi Lubricus Æther.
But the Lines that follow, a little after, are perfectly just, and beautiful:
Quod tibi larga dedit hora dextra, Hora furaci rapuit sinistra; More fallentis tenerum jocosæ Matris alumnum.
Our Hannes needed only to have writ more to have made himself second to Horace in all future Ages. But the Odes that are writ in the modern Languages, in French, Italian, and English, have nothing of the Genius of the Ancients. Ours, which generally go under the Name of Pindarics, are such empty, trifling Performances, that they are below even the Censure of a Critic. A Heap of Verses, tho' never so insipid and ridiculous, form'd as little upon the Laws of Reason, as of Metre, a monstrous Product of the Brain, shall be call'd, forsooth, a Pindaric! a Scandal which it is to be wish'd the Learned would no longer suffer to be offer'd to so sacred a Title. Our Songs and Catches, likewise, which are daily set to Music, whatever Charms they may borrow from thence, have very rarely any of their own; nay, it is observable, that often the worst Verses are set to Music best; as if true Poetry, and good Music, Sisters as they are, cou'd never agree: Which is a Reproach that redounds no less to the Dishonour of Music, than the former, I just mention'd, was to Pindar. But better Times appear, in which we hope to see these, and all other Arts, improv'd to their utmost Perfection; in this happy Age, I mean, wherein (that I may conclude my Discourse as I began, with a View at once to our present Solemnity, and our present Subject)