We here easily remark the intertexture of a happy compliment with an humble invitation; but certainly are less delighted than those, to whom the mention of the applause bestowed upon Maecenas, gave occasion to recount the actions or words that produced it.

Two lines which have exercised the ingenuity of modern criticks, may, I think, be reconciled to the judgment, by an easy supposition:  Horace thus addresses Agrippa: 

Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium Victor, Maeonii carminis alite.  HOR.  Lib. i.  Ode vi. 1.

Varius, a swan of Homer’s wing,
Shall brave Agrippa’s conquests sing.

That Varius should be called “A bird of Homeric song,” appears so harsh to modern ears, that an emendation of the text has been proposed:  but surely the learning of the ancients had been long ago obliterated, had every man thought himself at liberty to corrupt the lines which he did not understand.  If we imagine that Varius had been by any of his contemporaries celebrated under the appellation of Musarum ales, “the swan of the Muses,” the language of Horace becomes graceful and familiar; and that such a compliment was at least possible, we know from the transformation feigned by Horace of himself.

The most elegant compliment that was paid to Addison, is of this obscure and perishable kind;

  When panting Virtue her last efforts made,
  You brought your Clio to the virgin’s aid.

These lines must please as long as they are understood; but can be understood only by those that have observed Addison’s signatures in the Spectator.

The nicety of these minute allusions I shall exemplify by another instance, which I take this occasion to mention, because, as I am told, the commentators have omitted it.  Tibullus addressed Cynthia in this manner: 

  Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora,
    Te teneam moriens deficiente manu. Lib. i.  El. i. 73.

  Before my closing eyes dear Cynthia stand,
  Held weakly by my fainting trembling hand.

To these lines Ovid thus refers in his Elegy on the death of Tibullus: 

  Cynthia discedens, Felicius, inquit, amata
    Sum tibi; vixisti dum tuus ignis eram. 
  Cui Nemesis, quid, ait, tibi sint mea damna dolori? 
    Me tenuit moriens deficiente manu.  Am.  Lib. in.  El. ix. 56.

  Blest was my reign, retiring Cynthia cry’d;
  Not till he left my breast, Tibullus dy’d. 
  Forbear, said Nemesis, my loss to moan,
  The fainting trembling hand was mine alone.

The beauty of this passage, which consists in the appropriation made by Nemesis of the line originally directed to Cynthia, had been wholly imperceptible to succeeding ages, had chance, which has destroyed so many greater volumes, deprived us likewise of the poems of Tibullus.