Mr. Dryden speaking of Roscommon's essay on translated verse, has the following observation: 'It was that, says he, that made me uneasy, till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in poetry, is like a seeming demonstration in mathematics: very specious in the diagram, but failing in mechanic operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions. I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which in other words is to confess no less a vanity, than to pretend that I have at least in some places made examples to his rules.'
This declaration of Dryden will be found no more than one of those cursory civilities, which one author pays to another; and that kind of compliment for which Dryden was remarkable. For when the sum of lord Roscommon's precepts is collected, it will not be easy to discover how they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation, than might might have been attained by his own reflexions.
They are however here laid down:
| 'Tis true composing is the nobler part, But good translation is no easy art: For tho' materials have long since been found, Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound; [351] And by improving what was writ before, Invention labours less, but judgment more. Each poet with a different talent writes, One praises, one instructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And watch the ruling passion of your mind. Then seek a poet, who your way does bend. And chuse an author, as you chuse a friend. United by this sympathetic bond, You grow familiar, intimate, and fond; Your thoughts, your words, your stiles, your souls agree, No longer his interpreter, but he. Take then a subject, proper to expound * * * * * But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice, For men of sense, despise a trivial choice: And such applause, it must expect to meet As would some painter busy in the street; To copy bulls, and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore, There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar: Search every comment, that your care can find. Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind. Yet, be not blindly guided by the throng, The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural, or hard, Consult your author, with himself compar'd. Who knows what blessings Phæbus may bestow, And future ages to your labours owe? Such secrets are not easily found out, But once discovered leave no room for doubt. Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast, And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. [352] They who too faithfully on names insist; Rather create, than dissipate the mist: And grow unjust by being over nice, (For superstition, virtue turns to vice) Let Crassus ghost, and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell, Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame, That few know Pacorus, or Monæses name. And 'tis much safer to leave out than add * * * * * Abstruse and mystic thoughts, you must express, With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest, thro' the plainest dress, Your author always will the best advise, Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. | } } } |
Nothing could have induced us to have laboured thro' so great a number of cold unspirited lines, but in order to shew, that the rules which my lord has laid down are meerly common place, and must unavoidably occur to the mind of the most ordinary reader. They contain no more than this; that the author should be suitable to the translator's genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he who intends to translate him, should endeavour to understand him; that perspicuity should be studied, and unusual or uncouth names, sparingly inserted; and that the stile of the original should be copied in its elevation and depression. These are the common-place rules delivered without elegance, or energy, which have been so much celebrated, but how deservedly, let our unprepossess'd readers judge.
Roscommon was not without his merit; he was always chaste, and sometimes harmonious; but the grand requisites of a poet, elevation, fire, and invention, were not given him, and for want [353] of these, however pure his thoughts, he is a languid unentertaining writer.
Besides this essay on translated verse, he is the author of a translation of Horace's Art of poetry; with some other little poems, and translations published in a volume of the minor poets.
Amongst the MSS. of Mr. Coxeter, we found lord Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry, with some sketches of alterations he intended to make; but they are not great improvements; and this translation, of all his lordship's pieces, is the most unpoetical.
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