Volume V Part 26 (1/2)

Mr. Spence in one of his chapters on Allegory, in his Polymetis, has endeavoured to shew, how very little our poets have understood the allegories of the antients, even in their translations of them; and has instanced Mr. Dryden's translation of the Aeneid, as he thought him one of our most celebrated poets. The mistakes are very numerous, and some of them unaccountably gross. Upon this, says Mr. Warton, ”I was desirous to examine Mr. Pitt's translation of the same pa.s.sages; and was surprized to find near fifty instances which Mr. Spence has given of Dryden's mistakes of that kind, when Mr. Pitt had not fallen into above three or four.” Mr. Warton then produces some instances, which we shall not here transcribe, as it will be more entertaining to our readers to have a few of the most s.h.i.+ning pa.s.sages compared, in which there is the highest room for rising to a blaze of poetry.

There are few strokes in the whole Aeneid, which have been more admired than Virgil's description of the Lake of Avernus, Book VI.

Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu, Scrupea, tuta lacu nigro, nemorumque tenebris; Quam super haud ullae poterant impune volantes.

Tendere iter pennis; talis sese halitus atris, Faucibus effundens supera ad convexa ferebat: Unde loc.u.m Graii dixerunt nomine Aornon.

Quatuor hic primum nigrantes terga juvencos Const.i.tuit, frontique invergit vina sacerdos; Et, summas carpens media inter cornua setas, Ignibus imponit sacris libarmina prima, Voce vocans Hecaten, caeloque ereboque potentem.

DRYDEN.

Deep was the cave; and downward as it went, From the wide mouth, a rocky wide descent; And here th'access a gloomy grove defends; And there th'innavigable lake extends.

O'er whose unhappy waters, void of light, No bird presumes to steer his airy flight; Such deadly stenches from the depth arise, And steaming sulphur that infects the skies.

From hence the Grecian bards their legends make, And give the name Aornus to the lake.

Four fable bullocks in the yoke untaught, For sacrifice, the pious hero brought.

The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns: Then cuts the curling hair, that first oblation burns, Invoking Hecate hither to repair; (A powerful name in h.e.l.l and upper air.)

PITT.

Deep, deep, a cavern lies, devoid of light, All rough with rocks, and horrible to sight; Its dreadful mouth is fenc'd with sable floods, And the brown horrors of surrounding woods.

From its black jaws such baleful vapours rise, Blot the bright day, and blast the golden skies, That not a bird can stretch her pinions there, Thro' the thick poisons, and inc.u.mber'd air, But struck by death, her flagging pinions cease; And hence Aornus was it call'd by Greece.

Hither the priestess, four black heifers led, Between their horns the hallow'd wine she shed; From their high front the topmost hairs she drew, And in the flames the first oblations threw.

Then calls on potent Hecate, renown'd In Heav'n above, and Erebus profound.

The next instance we shall produce, in which, as in the former, Mr. Pitt has greatly exceeded Dryden, is taken from Virgil's description of Elysium, which says Dr. Trap is so charming, that it is almost Elysium to read it.

His demum exactis, perfecto munere divae, Devenere locos laetos, & amoena vireta Fortunatorum nemorum, sedesque beatas.

Largior hic campos aether & lumine vest.i.t Purpureo; solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.

Pars in gramineis exercent membra palaestris, Contendunt ludo, & fulva luctanter arena: Pars pedibus plaudunt ch.o.r.eas, & carmina dic.u.n.t.

Necnon Threicius longa c.u.m veste sacerdos Obloquitur numeris septem discrimina voc.u.m: Jamque eadem digitis, jam pectine pulsat eburno.

PITT.

These rites compleat, they reach the flow'ry plains, The verdant groves, where endless pleasure reigns.

Here glowing aether shoots a purple ray, And o'er the region pours a double day.

From sky to sky th'unwearied splendour runs, And n.o.bler planets roll round brighter suns.

Some wrestle on the sands, and some in play And games heroic pa.s.s the hours away.

Those raise the song divine, and these advance In measur'd steps to form the solemn dance.

There Orpheus graceful in his long attire, In seven divisions strikes the sounding lyre; Across the chords the quivering quill he flings, Or with his flying fingers sweeps the strings.

DRYDEN.