On Translation

Idle copy! in despair
Leave alone the Reubens there;
Breathing tints, and glowing hues!
'Tis the Lyre at second hand,
Stripp'd of all its proud command,
Stripp'd of Genius and the Muse.

Versions , though correct, efface
All the Poet's fleeting grace,
With a single touch inspir'd;
'Tis the Rose that winds have toss'd,
Fading when the root is lost
That her infant stem requir'd.
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