TRANSLATION; A POEM.
By THOMAS FRANCKLIN, Fellow of
Trinity-College,
CAMBRIDGE.
LONDON: Printed for R. FRANCKLIN in
Covent-Garden,
and sold by R. DODSLEY in Pall-Mall. MDCCLIII. [Price one Shilling.]
TO THE Right Honourable the EARLS of GRANVILLE, CHESTERFIELD, AND ORRERY, The best Judges of antient Learning, AND Most distinguish'd Patrons of modern Merit; The following LINES are humbly inscrib'd, BY
Their
LORDSHIP's
Most obedient and most devoted humble Servant,
THOMAS FRANCKLIN.
TRANSLATION; A POEM.
"SUCH is our Pride, our Folly, or our Fate,
"That few, but such as cannot write, Translate.
So DENHAM sung, who well the labour knew;
And an age past has left the maxim true.
Wit as of old, a proud imperious Lord,
Disdains the plenty of another's board;
And haughty Genius seeks, like Philip's son,
Paths never trod before, and worlds unknown.
Unaw'd by these whilst hands impure dispense
The sacred streams of antient eloquence,
Pedants assume the task for scholars sit,
And blockheads rise interpreters of wit.
IN the fair field the vet'ran armies stand,
A firm, unconquer'd, formidable band,
When lo! Translation comes and levels all;
By vulgar hands the bravest heroes fall.
On eagle's wings see lofty Pindar soar;
Cowley attacks, and Pindar is no more.
Line 18.
Cowley attacks,
&c. Nothing can be more contemptible than the translations and imitations of Pindar done by Cowley, which yet have had their admirers, in an Age not quite so sagacious as our own.
O'er Tibur's swan the muses wept in vain,
And mourn'd their bard by cruel Dunster slain.
Lin. 20. See Horace's Epistles, Satires, and Art of Poetry,
done into English
by S. Dunster, D.D. Prebendary of Sarum.
By Ogilby and Trap great Maro fell,
And Homer dy'd by Chapman and Ozell.
IN blest Arabia's Plains unfading blow
Flow'rs ever fragrant, fruits immortal grow,
To northern climes th'unwilling guests convey,
The fruit shall wither, and the flow'r decay;
Ev'n so when here the sweets of Athens come,
Or the fair produce of imperial Rome,
They pine and sicken in th'unfriendly shade,
Their roses droop, and all their laurels fade.
THE modern critick, whose unletter'd pride,
Lin. 31.
The modern critic,
&c. Les belles traductions (says Boileau) font des preuves sans replique en saveur des anciens, qu'on leur donne les Racines pour interpretes, & ils scauront plaire aujourdhui comme autrefois. Certain it is, that the contempt, in which the antients are held by the illiterate wits of the present age, is in a great measure owing to the number of bad translations.
Big with itself, contemns the world beside,
If haply told that Terence once cou'd charm,
Each feeling heart that Sophocles cou'd warm,
Scours every stall for Echard's dirty page,
Or pores in Adams for th'Athenian stage;
Lin. 36. See Adams's prose translation of Sophocles.
With joy he reads the servile mimics o'er,
Pleas'd to discover what he guess'd before;
Concludes that Attic wit's
extremely low,
Lin. 39.
Extremely low.
A favourite coffee-house phrase.
And gives up Greece to Wotton and Perrault.
Lin. 40.
Wotton and Perrault.
See Wotton's discourse on antient and modern learning, and Perrault's defence of his Siecle de Louis XIV.
OUR shallow language, shallow'r judges say,
Can ne'er the force of antient sense convey;
As well might Vanbrugh ev'ry stone revile
That swells enormous Blenheim's awkward pile;
The guiltless pen as well might Mauro blame,
For writing ill, and sullying Arthur's fame;
Lin. 46.
Arthur's fame.
See Blackmore's king Arthur, an heroic poem.
Successless lovers blast the maid they woo'd,
And these a Tongue they never understood;
That Tongue, which gave immortal Shakespear fame,
Which boasts a Prior's and a Thomson's name;
Gracefull and chaste, which flows in Addison,
With native charms, and vigour all its own;
In Bolinbroke and Swift its beauties shine,
In Rowe's soft numbers, Johnson's nervous line,
Dryden's free vein, and Milton's work divine.
BUT, such, alas! disdain to borrow fame,
Or live like dulness in another's name;
And hence the task for noblest souls design'd,
Giv'n to the weak, the tasteless, and the blind;
To some low wretch who, prostitute for pay,
Lets out to Curll the labours of the day,
Lin. 60.
To Curll,
&c. Most of the bad translations, which we have of eminent authors, were done by garreteers under the inspection of this gentleman, who paid them by the sheet for their hasty performances.
Careless who hurries o'er th' unblotted line,
Impatient still to finish and to dine;
Or some pale pedant, whose encumber'd brain
O'er the dull page hath toil'd for years in vain,
Who writes at last ambitiously to shew
How much a fool may read, how little know;
Can these on fancy's wing with Plato soar?
Can these a Tully's active mind explore?
Great nature's secret springs can these reveal,
Or paint those passions, which they ne'er cou'd feel?
Yet will they dare the pondrous lance to wield,
Yet will they strive to lift the seven-fold shield,
The rock of Ajax ev'ry child wou'd throw,
And ev'ry stripling bend Ulysses' bow.
THERE are, who timid line by line pursue,
Lin. 75, 79.
There are,
&c. The reader will easily recollect instances to illustrate each of these Remarks, more especially the last; half our translations being done from translations by such as were never able to consult the original. One of these gentlemen having occasion in his version to mention Dionysius of Halicarnassus, not having the good fortune to be acquainted with any such writer, makes use of the French liberty of curtailing, and without scruple calls him Dennis of Halicarnassus. Mistakes as gross as this often occur, tho' perhaps not many altogether so ridiculous.
Anxious to keep th' Original in view;
Who mark each footstep where their master trod,
And after all their pains have mist the road.
THERE are, an author's sense who boldly quit,
Lin. 75, 79.
There are,
&c. The reader will easily recollect instances to illustrate each of these Remarks, more especially the last; half our translations being done from translations by such as were never able to consult the original. One of these gentlemen having occasion in his version to mention Dionysius of Halicarnassus, not having the good fortune to be acquainted with any such writer, makes use of the French liberty of curtailing, and without scruple calls him Dennis of Halicarnassus. Mistakes as gross as this often occur, tho' perhaps not many altogether so ridiculous.
As if asham'd to own the debt of wit;
Who leave their fellow-trav'ller on the shore,
Launch in the deep, and part to meet no more.
SOME from reflection catch the weaken'd ray,
And scarce a gleam of doubtful sense convey,
Present a picture's picture to your view,
Where not a line is just or feature true;
THUS Greece and Rome, in modern dress array'd,
Is but antiquity in masquerade.
Disguis'd in Oldsworth's verse or Watson's prose,
What classic friend his alter'd Flaccus knows?
Whilst great Longinus gives to Welsted fame,
Lin. 91. See Welsted's translation of Longinus, done almost word for word from Boileau.
And Tacitus to Gordon lends his name,
Lin. 92.
To Gordon.
... This gentleman translated Tacitus in a very stiff and affected manner, transposing words, and placing the verb at the end of the sentence, accoding to the Latin idiom. He was called in his life-time Tacitus-Gordon.
Unmeaning strains debase the Mantuan muse,
And Terence speaks the language of the stews.
IN learning thus must Britain's sons decay,
And see her rival bear the prize away,
In arts as well as arms to Gallia yield,
Lin. 99.
To Gallia yield.
It was said by a great wit in the last war, that he should never doubt of our success, if we could once bring ourselves to hate the French as heartily as we do the arts and sciences. It is indisputable, that they are more warmly encouraged, and consequently more cultivated and improved in France than amongst us. Their translations (especially in prose) are acknowledged to be more faithful and correct, and in general more lively and spirited than ours.
And own her happier skill in either field?
See where her boasted d'Ablancourt appears,
Lin. 101. The French had so high an opinion of d'Ablancourt's merit as to think him deserving of the following epitaph:
L'illustre d'Ablancourt repose en ce tombeau,
Son genie à son siécle a servi de flambeau,
Dans ses fameux ecrits toute la France admire
Des Grecs & des Romains les precieux tresors;
A son trepas on ne peut dire
Qui perd le plus, des vivans ou des morts.
Her Mongaults, Brumoys, Olivets, Daciers;
Careful to make each antient's merit known,
Who just to others fame have rais'd their own;
Nor wonder these shou'd claim superior praise;
A nation thanks them, and a monarch pays.
Far other fate attends our hireling bard;
A sneer his praise, a pittance his reward,
The butt of wit, and jest of every muse,
Foes laugh to scorn, and even friends abuse,
The great Translator bids each dunce translate,
The great Translator,
&c. Pope in his epistle to Arbuthnot, after his enumeration of dunces, concludes with these two Lines.
All these my modest satire bade
translate,
And own'd that nine such poets made a
Tate.
Ver. 189.
I make no doubt but the very despicable light, in which Translation is here represented, may have deterred many from engaging in it, who would perhaps have made no contemptible figure in that branch of literature.
And ranks us all with Tibbald and with Tate.
BUT know, whate'er proud Art hath call'd her own,
The breathing canvas, and the sculptur'd stone,
The poets verse; 'tis Imitation all;
Great Nature only is Original.
Her various charms in various forms express'd,
They best have pleas'd us, who have copy'd best;
And those still shine more eminently bright,
Who shew the goddess in the fairest light.
SO when great Shakespear to his Garrick join'd,
With mutual aid conspire to rouze the mind,
'Tis not a scene of idle mimickry,
'Tis Lear's, Hamlet's, Richard's self we see;
We feel the actor's strength, the Poet's fire;
With joy we praise, with rapture we admire,
To see such pow'rs within the reach of art,
And Fiction thus subdue the human heart.
WHEN Sarto's pencil trac'd the faithful line,
Lin. 129. Andrea del Sarto, being desired by Frederic duke of Mantua to copy a picture of Leo X. did it with so much justness, that Julio Romano, who drew the drapery of that piece under Raphael, took his copy for the original, and said to Vasari,
"Don't I see the strokes that I struck with my own hand;
but Vasari shewing him Del Sarto's mark, he was convinced of his mistake.
The story is told at large in the 27th chapter of the first book of De Pile's Art of Painting.
So just each stroke, so equal the design,
That pleas'd he saw astonish'd Julio stand,
Nor know his own, nor Raphael's magic hand;
Blushing to find himself enamour'd grown
Of rival charms and beauties not his own.
THEIRS be the task to comment and translate,
Like these who judge, like these who imitate.
UNLESS an author like a mistress warms,
Lin. 137.
Unless, &c.
Roscommon says,
"Chuse then an author as you chuse a friend."
Perhaps the image is better drawn from the more lively passion.
How shall we hide his faults, or taste his charms,
How all his modest, latent beauties find,
How trace each lovelier feature of the mind,
Soften each blemish, and each grace improve,
And treat him with the dignity of love?
'TIS not enough that, fraught with learning's store,
By the dim lamp the tasteless critic pore,
'Tis not enough that wit's misguiding ray
Uncertain glance, and yield a doubtful day,
Not ev'n when both by partial nature giv'n
United bless the favourite of heav'n;
Unless, by secret sympathy combin'd,
Lin. 149,
Unless by secret,
&c. A biass of inclination towards a particular author, and a similarity of genius in the translator seem more immediately necessary than wit or learning.
The faithful glass reflects its kindred mind;
Unless from soul to soul th' imparted fire
Congenial catch and kindle warm desire;
Ev'n such as lives in Rowe's enraptur'd strain,
And gives Pharsalia to our eyes again,
Where glowing in each animated line,
We see the fiery soul of Lucan shine;
Lin. 156, See Rowe's translation of Lucan's Pharsalia, at the end of which is a short supplement written in the true spirit of the original.
Or such as gilds the fair historic page,
For Smith reserv'd to grace our latter age;
Lin. 158. See Smith's translation of Thucydides, lately published.
Such as o'er Dryden all its influence shed,
And bade his muse recall the mighty dead,
Such as in Pope's extensive genius shone,
And made immortal Homer all our own.
Lin. 162. If Pope had never produced any thing but his noble translation of Homer, it had been sufficient to have established his reputation as a poet.
VIEW all that proud antiquity displays,
Count o'er her boasted heirs of endless praise,
Who thought so nobly or who wrote so well,
Britain can shew th' illustrious parallel.
Methinks I hear each venerable shade
For base neglect his genuine sons upbraid.
Why wou'd not Congreve Afer's charms revive,
Or tender Hammond bid Tibullus live?
Lin. 170. Hammond, author of Love elegies.
Plautus had pleas'd in Vanbrugh's looser page,
And Otway shou'd have trod the Graecian stage;
Lucian wou'd shine unveil'd by Swift alone,
And Tully calls in vain for Middleton;
A Livy's sense demands a St. John's stile,
And Plato asks a Melmoth or a Boyle.
EV'N now there are, e'er learning take her flight,
And gothic darkness spread a second night;
Tho' science droop, and ling'ring arts decay,
There are, who gild the evening of our day.
Once more behold, majestic in her tears,
By Gray adorn'd, fair Elegy appears,
Lin. 182. See Elegy in a country churchyard:
Whilst by her side the soft Elfrida stands,
Lin. 183. Elfrida, by Mr. Mason.
And all our love and all our grief demands;
With Roman spirit Johnson's manly page
Lin. 185. Samuel Johnson, author of the Rambler, and also of two fine imitations of Juvenal.
Rises severe to scourge a venal age;
Brown draws the pen in sacred truth's defence,
Lin. 187. See Essay on the Characteristics of lord Shaftsbury.
And Armstrong paints his own benevolence.
Lin. 188. See an epistle on Benevolence, by Dr. Armstrong, author of a poem on Health, one of the best performances in the English language.
From antient models these exalted few
Their fairest forms and bright ideas drew;
We know the fountain whence the waters came,
Nor wonder at the clearness of the stream.
YET still, fair Greece, we see thy garlands torn,
We see thee still thy widow'd altars mourn;
On us thy heroes still indignant frown,
Or look with awful indignation down;
The tears of Rome for injur'd learning flow,
And Athens grieves that Britain is her foe.
WILL you not rise then, O! you sons of fame,
To vindicate the Greek and Roman name?
On friends oppress'd your gen'rous aid bestow,
And pay the debt of gratitude you owe?
Or can you still their wrongs unpitying see,
Nor social join with Warton and with Me?
Lin. 204. Mr. Warton has lately published a new translation of the eclogues and georgics of Virgil, and joined it to Mr. Pit's excellent translation of the Aeneid.
WHILST round his brows the Mantuan ivy twine,
Cautious to tread in Attic paths be mine;
To fame unknown, but emulous to please,
Trembling I seek th' immortal Sophocles.
GENIUS of Greece, do thou my breast inspire
With some warm portion of thy poet's fire,
From hands profane defend his much-lov'd name;
From cruel Tibbald wrest his mangled fame;
Lin. 212. Tibbald (or Theobald) translated two or three plays of Sophocles, and threaten'd the public with more.
Give him once more to bid the heart o'er-flow
In graceful tears, and sympathizing woe;
A father's death while soft Electra mourn,
Or shed her sorrows o'er a brother's urn;
Or fair Antigone her griefs relate;
Or poor Tecmessa weep her hapless state;
Or Oedipus revolve the dark decrees of fate.
Cou'd I like him the various passions move,
Granville wou'd smile, and Chesterfield approve;
Each letter'd son of science wou'd commend,
Each gentle muse wou'd mark me for her friend;
Isis well-pleas'd wou'd join a sister's praise,
And Cam applauding consecrate the lays.
Speedily will be Publish'd,
PROPOSALS For Printing by SUBSCRIPTION,
SOPHOCLES.
Translated into Blank VERSE, By THOMAS FRANCKLIN, Fellow of Trinity-College, and
Professor in the University of CAMBRIDGE.