If to admire were to commend, my praise Might then both thee, thy work and merit raise: But, as it is (the child of ignorance, And utter stranger to all air of France) How can I speak of thy great pains, but err? Since they can only judge, that can confer. Behold! The reverend shade of Bartas stands Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands That to the world I publish, for him, this: Bartas doth wish thy English now were his. So well in that are his inventions wrought, As his will now be the translation thought, Thine the original; and France shall boast, No more, those maiden glories she hath lost. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EMERSON by MARY ELIZABETH MAPES DODGE THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT by DOROTHY WORDSWORTH BLACK GIRL by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS THE VOYAGE; TO MAXIME DU CAMP by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE FATHERHOOD by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING PRELUDE TO THE NANTAHALAS by BARBARA BOWEN THE CITY: 2. THE CITY by STIRLING BOWEN |