No More Learning

About 1678, he was an usher in the free school of Croydon; but having
already distinguished himself by several pieces of poetry, and
particularly by four severe satirical invectives against the order of
Jesuits, then obnoxious on account of the Popish Plot, he quitted that
mean situation, to become tutor to the family of Sir Edward Theveland,
and afterwards to a son of Sir William Hickes. Shortly after he seems to
have resigned all employment except the unthrifty trade of poetry. When
Oldham entered upon this career, he settled of course in the metropolis,
where his genius recommended him to the company of the first wits, and
to the friendship of Dryden. He did not long enjoy the pleasures of such
a life, nor did he live to experience the uncertainties, and
disappointment, and reverses, with which, above all others, it abounds.
Being seized with the small-pox, while visiting at the seat of his
patron, William Earl of Kingston, he died of that disease on the 9th
December, 1683, in the 30th year of his age.

His "Remains," in verse and prose, were soon afterwards published, with
elegies and recommendatory verses prefixed by Tate, Flatman, Durfey,
Gould, Andrews, and others. But the applause of Dryden, expressed in the
following lines, was worth all the tame panegyrics of other contemporary
bards. It appears, among the others, in "Oldham's Remains," London,
1683.




TO

THE MEMORY

OF

MR OLDHAM.


Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own:
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
Whilst his young friend performed and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more!
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. [79]
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betrayed.
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, }
Still shewed a quickness; and maturing time }
But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. }
Once more, hail, and farewell! farewell, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

[Footnote 79: Dryden's opinion concerning the harshness of Oldham's
numbers, was not unanimously subscribed to by contemporary authors. In
the "Historical Dictionary," 1694, Oldham is termed, "a pithy,
sententious, elegant, and smooth writer:" and Winstanley says, that none
can read his works without admiration; "so pithy his strains, so
sententious his expression, so elegant his oratory, so swimming his
language, so smooth his lines. " Tom Brown goes the length to impute our
author's qualification of his praise of Oldham to the malignant spirit
of envy: "'Tis your own way, Mr Bayes, as you may remember in your
verses upon Mr Oldham, where you tell the world that he was a very fine,
ingenious gentleman, but still did not understand the cadence of the
English tongue. "--_Reasons for Mr Bayes' changing his Religion_, Part
II. p. 33.

But this only proves, that Tom Brown and Mr Winstanley were deficient in
poetical ear; for Oldham's satires, though full of vehemence and
impressive expression, are, in diction, not much more harmonious than
those of Hall or of Donne. The reader may take the following celebrated
passage on the life of a nobleman's chaplain, as illustrating both the
merits and defects of his poetry:

Some think themselves exalted to the sky,
If they light in some noble family;
Diet, a horse, and thirty pounds a year,
Besides the advantage of his Lordship's ear;
The credit of the business, and the state,
Are things that in a youngster's sense sound great.
Little the unexperienced wretch doth know
What slavery he oft must undergo;
Who, though in silken scarf and cassock dressed,
Wears but a gayer livery at best
When dinner calls, the implement must wait,
With holy words, to consecrate the meat;
But hold it for a favour seldom known,
If he be deigned the honour to sit down:
Soon as the tarts appear, Sir Crape withdraw;
These dainties are not for a spiritual maw.
Observe your distance, and be sure to stand
Hard by the cistern, with your cup in hand;
There for diversion you may pick your teeth,
Till the kind voider comes to your relief:
For mere board-wages such their freedom sell;
Slaves to an hour, and vassals to a bell;
And if the enjoyment of one day be stole,
They are but prisoners out upon parole;
Always the marks of slavery retain,
And e'en when loose, still drag about their chain.
And where's the mighty prospect, after all,
A chaplainship served up, and seven years thrall?
The menial thing perhaps, for a reward,
Is to some slender benefice preferred;
With this proviso bound, that he must wed }
My lady's antiquated waiting-maid, }
In dressing only skilled, and marmalade. }
Let others, who such meannesses can brook,
Strike countenance to every great man's look;
Let those that have a mind turn slaves to eat,
And live contented by another's plate;
I rate my freedom higher, nor will I
For food and raiment track my liberty:
But if I must to my last shifts be put,
To fill a bladder and twelve yards of gut,
Rather with counterfeited wooden leg,
And my right arm tied up, I'll chuse to beg;
I'll rather chuse to starve at large, than be
The gaudiest vassal to dependency.
'T has ever been the top of my desires,
The utmost height to which my wish aspires,
That heaven would bless me with a small estate;
There, free from noise and all ambitious ends,
Enjoy a few choice books, and fewer friends;
Lord of myself, accountable to none,
But to my conscience and my God alone;
There live unthought of, and unheard of die,
And grudge mankind my very memory.

_Satire to a Friend about to leave the University. _
]




TO

THE PIOUS MEMORY

OF

MRS ANNE KILLIGREW.


MRS ANNE KILLIGREW was daughter of Dr Henry Killigrew, master of the
Savoy, and one of the prebendaries of Westminster, and brother of Thomas
Killigrew, renowned, in the court of Charles II. , for wit and repartee.
The family, says Mr Walpole, was remarkable for its loyalty,
accomplishments, and wit; and this young lady, who displayed great
talents for painting and poetry, promised to be one of its fairest
ornaments. She was maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and died of
the small-pox in 1685, the 25th year of her age.

Mrs Anne Killigrew's poems were published after her death in a thin
quarto, with a print of the author, from her portrait drawn by herself.
She also painted the portraits of the Duke of York and of his Duchess,
and executed several historical pictures, landscapes, and pieces of
still life. See _Lord_ ORFORD'S _Lives of the Painters_, Works, Vol.
III. p. 297; and BALLARD'S _Lives of Learned Ladies_.

The poems of this celebrated young lady do not possess any uncommon
merit, nor are her paintings of a high class, although preferred by
Walpole to her poetry. But very slender attainments in such
accomplishments, when united with youth, beauty, and fashion, naturally
receive a much greater share of approbation from contemporaries, than
unbiassed posterity can afford to them. Even the flinty heart of old
Wood seems to have been melted by this young lady's charms,
notwithstanding her being of _womankind_, as he contemptuously calls
the fair sex. He says, that she was a Grace for a beauty, and a Muse for
a wit; and that there must have been more true history than compliment
in our author's ode, since otherwise the lady's father would not have
permitted it to go to press. --_Athenæ_, Vol. II. p. 1036.

This ode, which singularly exhibits the strong grasp and comprehensive
range of Dryden's fancy, as well as the harmony of his numbers, seems to
have been a great favourite of Dr Johnson, who, in one place, does not
hesitate to compare it to the famous ode on St Cecilia; and, in another,
calls it undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language ever has
produced. Although it is probable that few will subscribe to the
judgment of that great critic in the present instance, yet the verses
can never be read with indifference by any admirer of poetry. We are, it
is true, sometimes affronted by a pun, or chilled by a conceit; but the
general power of thought and expression resumes its sway, in despite of
the interruption given by such instances of bad taste. In its
arrangement, the ode is what the seventeenth century called pindaric;
freed, namely, from the usual rules of order and arrangement. This
license, which led most poets, who exercised it, to extravagance and
absurdity, only gave Dryden a wider scope for the exercise of his
wonderful power of combining and uniting the most dissimilar ideas, in a
manner as ingenious as his numbers are harmonious. Images and scenes,
the richest, though most inconsistent with each other, are sweeped
together by the flood of song: we neither see whence they arise, nor
whither they are going; but are contented to admire the richness and
luxuriance in which the poet has arrayed them. The opening of the poem
has been highly praised by Dr Johnson. "The first part," says that
critic, "flows with a torrent of enthusiasm,--_Fervet immensusque ruit_.
All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot be one
continued diamond; the gems must be held together by some less valuable
matter. "

The stanzas, which appear to the editor peculiarly to exhibit the spirit
of the pindaric ode, are the first, second, fourth, and fifth. Of the
others, the third is too metaphysical for the occasion; the description
of the landscapes in the sixth is beautiful, and presents our
imagination with the scenery and groups of Claude Lorraine; and that of
the royal portraits, in the seventh, has some fine lines and turns of
expression: But I cannot admire, with many critics, the comparison of
the progress of genius to the explosion of a sky-rocket; and still less
the flat and familiar conclusion,

What next she had designed, heaven only knows.

The eighth stanza is disgraced by antitheses and conceit; and though
the beginning of the ninth be beautiful and affecting, our emotion is
quelled by the nature of the consolation administered to a sea captain,
that his sister is turned into a star. The last stanza excites ideas
perhaps too solemn for poetry; and what is worse, they are couched in
poetry too fantastic to be solemn; but the account of the resurrection
of the "sacred poets," is, in the highest degree, elegant and beautiful.

Anne Killigrew was the subject of several other poetical lamentations,
one or two of which are in the Luttrell Collection.




TO

THE PIOUS MEMORY

OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY

MRS ANNE KILLIGREW,

EXCELLENT IN

THE TWO SISTER ARTS

OF

POESY AND PAINTING.

AN ODE.


I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new plucked from paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in procession fixed and regular,
Mov'st with the heaven's majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.


II.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. [80]
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was formed, at first, with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll,
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, }
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: }
Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. }


III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth.
For sure the milder planets did combine }
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, }
And e'en the most malicious were in trine. }
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clustering swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,
'Twas that such vulgar miracles
Heaven had not leisure to renew:
For all thy blest fraternity of love
Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.


IV.

O gracious God! how far have we
Prophaned thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age,
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own)
T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t'excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. [81]


V.


Art she had none, yet wanted none;
For nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seemed borrowed where 'twas only born.
Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read:
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
E'en love (for love sometimes her muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast:
Light as the vapours of a morning dream,
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.


VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought she should have been content
To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious souls confine?
To the next realm she stretched her sway, }
For Painture near adjoining lay, }
A plenteous province, and alluring prey. }
A chamber of dependencies was framed,
(As conquerors will never want pretence,
When armed, to justify the offence,)
And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claimed.
The country open lay without defence;
For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could represent
The shape, the face, with every lineament,
And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister swayed;
All bowed beneath her government,
Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,
And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind.
The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks,
Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, shewed the woods;
Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,
And perspectives of pleasant glades,
Where nymphs of brightest form appear, }
And shaggy satyrs standing near, }
Which them at once admire and fear. }
The ruins too of some majestic piece,
Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,
Whose statues, frizes, columns, broken lie,
And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
Her forming hand gave feature to the name.
So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.


VII.

The scene then changed; with bold erected look
Our martial king[82] the sight with reverence strook:
For, not content to express his outward part,
Her hand called out the image of his heart:
His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, }
His high-designing thoughts were figured there, }
As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. }
Our phœnix queen[83] was pourtrayed too so bright,
Beauty alone could beauty take so right:
Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:
Before a train of heroines was seen,
In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.
Thus nothing to her genius was denied,
But like a ball of fire the further thrown,
Still with a greater blaze she shone,
And her bright soul broke out on every side.
What next she had designed, heaven only knows:
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose,
That fate alone its progress could oppose.


VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety, could fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plundered first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died;[84]
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.


IX.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here:
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wrecked at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far
Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
Tis she that shines in that propitious light.


X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the valley of Jehosophat,
The judging God shall close the book of fate,
And there the last assizes keep,
For those who wake, and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly,
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, }
And foremost from the tomb shall bound, }
For they are covered with the lightest ground; }
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, }
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, }
The way which thou so well hast learnt below. }


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 80: Henry Killigrew, D. D. , the young lady's father, was
himself a poet. He wrote "The Conspiracy," a tragedy much praised by Ben
Jonson and the amiable Lord Falkland, published in 1634. This edition
being pirated and spurious, the author altered the play, and changed the
title to "Pallantus and Eudora," published in 1652. --See WOOD'S _Athenæ
Oxon_. Vol. II. p. 1036. ]

[Footnote 81: This line certainly gave rise to that of Pope in Gay's
epitaph:

In wit a man, simplicity a child.
]

[Footnote 82: James II. painted by Mrs Killigrew. ]

[Footnote 83: Mary of Este, as eminent for beauty as rank, also painted
by the subject of the elegy. ]

[Footnote 84: Mrs Katherine Philips, whom the affectation of her age
called _Orinda_, was the daughter of Mr Fowler, a citizen of London.
Aubrey, the most credulous of mankind, tells us, in MS. Memoirs of her
life, that she read through the Bible before she was four years old, and
would take sermons verbatim by the time she was ten. She married a
decent respectable country gentleman, called Wogan; a name which, when
it occurred in her extensive literary correspondence, she exchanged for
the fantastic appellation of _Antenor_. She maintained a literary
intercourse for many years with bishops, earls, and wits, the main
object of which was the management and extrication of her husband's
affairs. But whether because the correspondents of Orinda were slack in
attending to her requests in her husband's favour, or whether because a
learned lady is a bad manager of sublunary concerns, Antenor's
circumstances became embarrassed, notwithstanding all Orinda's
exertions, and the fair solicitor was obliged to retreat with him into
Cardiganshire. Returning from this seclusion to London, in 1664, she was
seized with the small-pox, which carried her off in the 33d year of her
age.

Her poems and translations were collected into a folio after her death,
which bears the title of "Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs
Katherine Philips, the matchless ORINDA. London, 1667. "--See BALLARD'S
_Memoirs of Learned Ladies_, p. 287.

This lady is here mentioned with the more propriety, as Mrs Anne
Killigrew dedicated the following lines to her memory:

Orinda (Albion's and our sexes grace)
Owed not her glory to a beauteous face,--
It was her radiant soul that shone within,
Which struck a lustre through her outward skin,
That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,
Advanced her height, and sparkled in her eye:
Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,
But higher 'mong the stars it fixed her name;
What she did write not only all allowed,
But every laurel to her laurel bowed.
]




UPON THE DEATH OF

THE VISCOUNT OF DUNDEE.


JAMES GRAHAM of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, studied the military
art under the Prince of Orange. He first distinguished himself by his
activity in exercising the severities which the Scottish council, in the
reigns of Charles II. and James II. , decreed against the frequenters of
the field-meetings and conventicles. On this account his memory is
generally reprobated by the Scottish presbyterians; nor would history
have treated him more gently, had not the splendour of his closing life
effaced the recollection of his cruelties. When the Scottish Convention
declared for the Prince of Orange in 1688-9, Dundee left Edinburgh, and
retired to the north, where he raised the Highland clans, to prop the
sinking cause of James II. After an interval of a few months, spent in
desultory warfare, General Mackay marched, with a regular force, towards
Blair in Athole, against this active and enterprising enemy. Upon the
17th June, 1689, when Mackay had defiled through the rocky and
precipitous pass of Killicrankie, he found Dundee, with his Highlanders,
arranged upon an eminence opposite to the northern mouth of the defile.
Dundee permitted his adversary gradually, and at leisure, to disengage
himself from the pass, and draw up his army in line; for, meditating a
total victory, and not a mere check or repulse, he foresaw that Mackay's
retreat would be difficult in proportion to the distance of his forces
from the only path of safety through which they could fly. He then
charged with irresistible fury, and routed Mackay's army in every
direction, saving two regiments who stood firm. But as Dundee hastened
towards them, and extended his arm as if urging the assault, a shot
penetrated his armour beneath his arm-pit, and he dropt from his horse.
He lived but a very short time, and died in the arms of victory. With
Dundee fell all hopes of restoring King James's affairs in Scotland; the
independent chieftains, who had been overawed by his superior talents,
resumed the petty altercations which his authority had decided or
suppressed; their followers melted away without a battle; and after his
death, those who had been rather the implements than the companions of
his victory, met nothing but repulse and defeat, until all the north of
Scotland submitted to William III.

The epitaph, here translated by Dryden, was originally written in Latin
by Dr Pitcairn, remarkable for genius and learning, as well as for
Jacobitism. It will hardly be disputed, that the original is much
superior to the translation, though the last be written by Dryden. In
the second couplet alone, the translator has improved upon his original:

IN MORTEM VICECOMITIS TAODUNENSIS.

ULTIME SCOTORUM! POTUIT, QUO SOSPITE SOLO,
LIBERTAS PATRIÆ SALVA FUISSE TUÆ;
TE MORIENTE NOVOS ACCEPIT SCOTIA CIVES,
ACCEPITQUE NOVOS, TE MORIENTE, DEOS.
ILLA TIBI SUPERESSE NEGAT, TU NON POTES ILLI,
ERGO CALEDONIÆ NOMEN INANE, VALE!
TUQUE VALE, GENTIS PRISCÆ FORTISSIME DUCTOR,

Some editions of this celebrated epitaph, which seem to have been
followed by Dryden, read the last line thus:

_Ultime Scotorum atque optime, Grame, Vale. _

But there is something national in calling Dundee the last of Scots, and
the last of Grames, a race distinguished for patriotism in the struggles
against England, and on this principle the last reading should be
preferred.




UPON

THE DEATH

OF

THE VISCOUNT OF DUNDEE.

Oh last and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.
Scotland and thou did each in other live;
Nor would'st thou her, nor could she thee survive.
Farewell! who, dying, didst support the state,
And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.




ELEONORA:

A

PANEGYRICAL POEM,

DEDICATED

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE

COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.


----_Superas evadere per auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci quos æquus amavit
Jupiter, aut ardens evixit ad æthera virtus,
Diis geniti potuere. _

VIRGIL. Æneid. lib. vi.




ELEONORA.


MR. MALONE has given a full account of the lady in whose honour this
poem was written: "Eleonora, eldest daughter, and at length sole heir,
of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in the county of Oxford, Baronet, by
Anne, daughter of Sir John Danvers, and sister and heir to Henry
Danvers, Esq. , who was nephew and heir to Henry, Earl of Danby: She was
the wife of James Bertie, first Earl of Abingdon, and died May 31, 1691.
Her lord, in 1698, married a second wife, Catharine, daughter of Sir
Thomas Chamberlaine, Bart. "

Her death was unexpectedly sudden, and took place in a ball-room in her
own house; a circumstance which our author has hardly glanced at,
although capable of striking illustration; and although one might have
thought he would have grasped at whatever could assist him in executing
the difficult task, of an elegy written by desire of a nobleman whom he
did not know, in memory of a lady whom he had never seen. It is to be
presumed, that the task imposed was handsomely recompensed; for we can
hardly conceive one in itself more unpleasant or unprofitable.
Notwithstanding Dryden's professions, that he "swam with the tide" while
composing this piece, and that the variety and multitude of his similies
were owing to the divine _afflatus_ and the influence of his subject, we
may be fairly permitted to doubt, whether they did not rather originate
in an attempt to supply the lack of real sympathy, by the indulgence of
a luxuriant imagination. The commencement has been rather severely
censured by Dr Johnson; the comparison, he says, contains no
illustration. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented:
"This," observes he, "is little better than to say of a shrub, that it
is as green as a tree; or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as a
river waters a country. " But, I presume, the point on which Dryden meant
the comparison to depend, was, the extent of the lamentation occasioned
by Eleonora's death; in which particular the simile conveyed an
illustration as ample, as if Dryden had said of a myrtle, it was as tall
as an oak, or of a brook, it was as deep as the Thames.

The poem is certainly totally deficient in interest; for the character
has no peculiarity of features: But, considered as an abstract example
of female perfection, we may admire the ideal Eleonora, as we do the
fancy-piece of a celebrated painter, though with an internal
consciousness that the original never existed.
"Eleonora" first appeared in quarto, in 1692, probably about the end of
autumn; as Dryden alludes to the intervention of some months between
Lord Abingdon's commands and his own performance.




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c. [85]


MY LORD,

The commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are now
performed: they had been sooner, but betwixt ill health, some business,
and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time. Ovid,
going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his friends,
excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told them, that
good verses never flow, but from a serene and composed spirit. Wit,
which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and heels,
can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to obey you
late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing any thing, at any
time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say that
I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by hard
swimming, where I may pant awhile and gather breath; for the doctors
give me a sad assurance, that my disease[86] never took its leave of
any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord, I have laid
hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left
me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to
my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the
inspiration when we please; but must wait till the God comes rushing on
us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist; which
gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us
languishing and spent, at its departure. Let me not seem to boast, my
lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond
my natural power. Let me add, and hope to be believed, that the
excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the
execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while I
was writing. I swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant.
The reader will easily observe, that I was transported by the multitude
and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a
luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. Had I called in my judgment
to my assistance, I had certainly retrenched many of them. But I defend
them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of
critics; for the whole poem, though written in that which they call
heroic verse, is of the pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the
expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it.
It was intended, as your lordship sees in the title, not for an elegy,
but a panegyric: a kind of apotheosis, indeed, if a heathen word may be
applied to a Christian use. And on all occasions of praise, if we take
the ancients for our patterns, we are bound by prescription to employ
the magnificence of words, and the force of figures, to adorn the
sublimity of thoughts. Isocrates amongst the Grecian orators, and
Cicero, and the younger Pliny, amongst the Romans, have left us their
precedents for our security; for I think I need not mention the
inimitable Pindar, who stretches on these pinions out of sight, and is
carried upward, as it were, into another world.

This, at least, my lord, I may justly plead, that, if I have not
performed so well as I think I have, yet I have used my best endeavours
to excel myself. One disadvantage I have had, which is, never to have
known or seen my lady; and to draw the lineaments of her mind from the
description which I have received from others, is for a painter to set
himself at work without the living original before him; which, the more
beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive,
when he has only a relation given him of such and such features by an
acquaintance or a friend, without the nice touches, which give the best
resemblance, and make the graces of the picture. Every artist is apt
enough to flatter himself, and I amongst the rest, that their own ocular
observations would have discovered more perfections, at least others,
than have been delivered to them; though I have received mine from the
best hands, that is, from persons who neither want a just understanding
of my lady's worth, nor a due veneration for her memory.

Doctor Donne, the greatest wit, though not the best poet of our nation,
acknowledges, that he had never seen Mrs Drury, whom he has made
immortal in his admirable "Anniversaries. "[87] I have had the same
fortune, though I have not succeeded to the same genius. However, I have
followed his footsteps in the design of his panegyric; which was to
raise an emulation in the living, to copy out the example of the dead.
And therefore it was, that I once intended to have called this poem "The
Pattern;" and though, on a second consideration, I changed the title
into the name of that illustrious person, yet the design continues, and
Eleonora is still the pattern of charity, devotion, and humility; of the
best wife, the best mother, and the best of friends.

And now, my lord, though I have endeavoured to answer your commands, yet
I could not answer it to the world, nor to my conscience, if I gave not
your lordship my testimony of being the best husband now living: I say
my testimony only; for the praise of it is given you by yourself. They,
who despise the rules of virtue both in their practice and their morals,
will think this a very trivial commendation. But I think it the peculiar
happiness of the Countess of Abingdon, to have been so truly loved by
you, while she was living, and so gratefully honoured, after she was
dead. Few there are who have either had, or could have, such a loss;
and yet fewer, who carried their love and constancy beyond the grave.
The exteriors of mourning, a decent funeral, and black habits, are the
usual stints of common husbands; and perhaps their wives deserve no
better than to be mourned with hypocrisy, and forgot with ease. But you
have distinguished yourself from ordinary lovers, by a real and lasting
grief for the deceased; and by endeavouring to raise for her the most
durable monument, which is that of verse. And so it would have proved,
if the workman had been equal to the work, and your choice of the
artificer as happy as your design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the
statue of Minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author
of the piece; so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to
this poem, I may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity
by the memory of hers. It is no flattery to assure your lordship, that
she is remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of
her conversation and acquaintance; and that I have never been in any
company since the news of her death was first brought me, where they
have not extolled her virtues, and even spoken the same things of her in
prose, which I have done in verse.

I therefore think myself obliged to your lordship for the commission
which you have given me: how I have acquitted myself of it, must be left
to the opinion of the world, in spite of any protestation which I can
enter against the present age, as incompetent or corrupt judges. For my
comfort, they are but Englishmen; and, as such, if they think ill of me
to-day, they are inconstant enough to think well of me to-morrow. And
after all, I have not much to thank my fortune that I was born amongst
them. The good of both sexes are so few, in England, that they stand
like exceptions against general rules; and though one of them has
deserved a greater commendation than I could give her, they have taken
care that I should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the like
subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and left
almost as individual as the person. They say, my talent is satire; if it
be so, it is a fruitful age, and there is an extraordinary crop to
gather, but a single hand is insufficient for such a harvest: they have
sown the dragon's teeth themselves, and it is but just they should reap
each other in lampoons. You, my lord, who have the character of honour,
though it is not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the
small remainders of the English nobility, truly such, and, unhurt
yourselves, behold the mad combat. If I have pleased you, and some few
others, I have obtained my end. You see I have disabled myself, like an
elected Speaker of the House; yet, like him, I have undertaken the
charge, and find the burden sufficiently recompensed by the honour. Be
pleased to accept of these my unworthy labours, this paper monument; and
let her pious memory, which I am sure is sacred to you, not only plead
the pardon of my many faults, but gain me your protection, which is
ambitiously sought by,

My LORD,
Your Lordship's
Most obedient servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 85: James Bertie, Lord Norris of Rycote, was created Earl of
Abingdon in 1682. There is in the Luttrell Collection an Elegy on his
death. ]

[Footnote 86: The gout. ]

[Footnote 87: Donne's character as a love-poet is elsewhere very well
given by Dryden. "He affects the metaphysics, not only in his satires,
but in his amorous verses, where nature only should reign; and perplexes
the minds of the fair sex with the speculations of philosophy, where he
should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softness of
love. " Elizabeth Drury was the daughter of Sir Robert Drury, with whom
Donne went to Paris. Donne celebrated her merit, and lamented her death
in elegies, entitled, "The Anatomy of the World, wherein, by occasion of
the untimely Death of Mrs Elizabeth Drury, the frailty and the decay of
this whole World is represented. " These elegiac verses are divided into
two anniversaries, through which the editor attempted in vain to
struggle in search of the acknowledgment quoted by Dryden. ]




ELEONORA:

A

PANEGYRICAL POEM,

DEDICATED

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE

COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.


ARGUMENT.

From the Marginal Notes of the First Edition.

_The introduction. Of her charity. Of her prudent management. Of her
humility. Of her piety. Of her various virtues. Of her conjugal
virtues. Of her love to her children. Her care of their education.
Of her friendship. Reflections on the shortness of her life. The
manner of her death. Her preparedness to die. Apostrophe to her
soul. Epiphonema, or close of the poem. _

As when some great and gracious monarch dies,
Soft whispers first, and mournful murmurs, rise
Among the sad attendants; then the sound
Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around,
Through town and country, till the dreadful blast
Is blown to distant colonies at last,
Who then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain,
For his long life, and for his happy reign:
So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame }
Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, }
Till public as the loss the news became. }
The nation felt it in the extremest parts,
With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts;
But most the poor, whom daily she supplied,
Beginning to be such, but when she died.
For, while she lived, they slept in peace by night,
Secure of bread, as of returning light,
And with such firm dependence on the day,
That need grew pampered, and forgot to pray;
So sure the dole, so ready at their call,
They stood prepared to see the manna fall.
Such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nurst,
That she herself might fear her wanting first.
Of her five talents, other five she made;
Heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid;
And in few lives, in wonderous few, we find
A fortune better fitted to the mind.
Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,
Or proud desire of praise--the soul gave all:
Unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear,
No less than heaven, to heap huge treasures there.
Want passed for merit at her open door:
Heaven saw, he safely might increase his poor,
And trust their sustenance with her so well,
As not to be at charge of miracle.
None could be needy, whom she saw or knew;
All in the compass of her sphere she drew:
He, who could touch her garment, was as sure,
As the first Christians of the apostles' cure.
The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds,
And laid her up for their extremest needs;
A future cordial for a fainting mind;
For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find,
Each in his turn: the rich might freely come,
As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas home.
As to some holy house the afflicted came, }
The hunger-starved, the naked, and the lame, }
Want and diseases fled before her name. }
For zeal like her's her servants were too slow; }
She was the first, where need required, to go; }
Herself the foundress and attendant too. }
Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,
Guests in disguise, of her great Master's train:
Her Lord himself might come, for aught we know,
Since in a servant's form he lived below:
Beneath her roof he might be pleased to stay;
Or some benighted angel, in his way,
Might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven appear
In its best work of mercy, think it there;
Where all the deeds of charity and love
Were in as constant method, as above,
All carried on; all of a piece with theirs; }
As free her alms, as diligent her cares; }
As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers. }
Yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste,
And wisely managed, that the stock might last;
That all might be supplied, and she not grieve,
When crowds appeared, she had not to relieve:
Which to prevent, she still increased her store;
Laid up, and spared, that she might give the more.
So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he,
Provided for the seventh necessity;[88]
Taught from above his magazines to frame,
That famine was prevented ere it came.
Thus heaven, though all-sufficient, shews a thrift
In his œconomy, and bounds his gift;
Creating for our day one single light,
And his reflection too supplies the night.
Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie
Remote from us, and latent in the sky,
Are lightened by his beams, and kindly nurst,
Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst.
Now, as all virtues keep the middle line,
Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,
Such was her soul; abhorring avarice,
Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice;
Had she given more, it had profusion been,
And turned the excess of goodness into sin.
These virtues raised her fabric to the sky;
For that which is next heaven is charity.
But as high turrets for their airy steep
Require foundations in proportion deep,
And lofty cedars as far upward shoot
As to the nether heavens they drive the root;
So low did her secure foundation lie,
She was not humble, but humility.
Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair, }
Or wise, beyond what other women are, }
Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare. }
For, to be conscious of what all admire,
And not be vain, advances virtue higher.
But still she found, or rather thought she found,
Her own worth wanting, others' to abound;
Ascribed above their due to every one,
Unjust and scanty to herself alone.
Such her devotion was, as might give rules
Of speculation to disputing schools,
And teach us equally the scales to hold
Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold;
That pious heat may moderately prevail,
And we be warmed, but not be scorched with zeal.
Business might shorten, not disturb, her prayer;
Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.
An active life long orisons forbids;
Yet still she prayed, for still she prayed by deeds.
Her every day was sabbath; only free
From hours of prayer, for hours of charity.
Such as the Jews from servile toil released,
Where works of mercy were a part of rest;
Such as blest angels exercise above,
Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love;
Such sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,
E'en that perpetual one, which she employs,
(For such vicissitudes in heaven there are)
In praise alternate, and alternate prayer.
All this she practised here, that when she sprung
Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung;
Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays;
For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.
All offices of heaven so well she knew,
Before she came, that nothing there was new;
And she was so familiarly received,
As one returning, not as one arrived.
Muse, down again precipitate thy flight;
For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light?
But as the sun in water we can bear,
Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,
So let us view her here in what she was,
And take her image in this watery glass:
Yet look not every lineament to see; }
Some will be cast in shades, and some will be }
So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 'tis she. }
For where such various virtues we recite, }
'Tis like the milky-way, all over bright, }
But sown so thick with stars, 'tis undistinguished light. }
Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call;
For one heroic comprehends them all:
One, as a constellation is but one, }
Though 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on, }
Rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run, }
Ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends, }
Now hope, now charity, that upward tends, }
And downwards with diffusive good descends. }
As in perfumes composed with art and cost,
Tis hard to say what scent is uppermost;
Nor this part musk or civet can we call,
Or amber, but a rich result of all;
So she was all a sweet, whose every part,
In due proportion mixed, proclaimed the Maker's art.
No single virtue we could most commend,
Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend;
For she was all, in that supreme degree,
That as no one prevailed, so all was she.
The several parts lay hidden in the piece;
The occasion but exerted that, or this.
A wife as tender, and as true withal,
As the first woman was before her fall:
Made for the man, of whom she was a part;
Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.
A second Eve, but by no crime accurst;
As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.
Had she been first, still Paradise had been,
And death had found no entrance by her sin.
So she not only had preserved from ill
Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still.
Love and obedience to her lord she bore;
She much obeyed him, but she loved him more:
Not awed to duty by superior sway,
But taught by his indulgence to obey.
Thus we love God, as author of our good;
So subjects love just kings, or so they should.
Nor was it with ingratitude returned; }
In equal fires the blissful couple burned; }
One joy possessed them both, and in one grief they mourned. }
His passion still improved; he loved so fast,
As if he feared each day would be her last.
Too true a prophet to foresee the fate
That should so soon divide their happy state;
When he to heaven entirely must restore
That love, that heart, where he went halves before.
Yet as the soul is all in every part,
So God and he might each have all her heart.
So had her children too; for charity
Was not more fruitful, or more kind, than she:[89]
Each under other by degrees they grew;
A goodly perspective of distant view.
Anchises looked not with so pleased a face,
In numbering o'er his future Roman race,[90]
And marshalling the heroes of his name,
As, in their order, next to light they came;
Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,
Surveyed her sons and daughters of the sky;
Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?
As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.
Her pious love excelled to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more.
And as the chosen found the pearly grain
As much as every vessel could contain;
As in the blissful vision each shall share }
As much of glory as his soul can bear; }
So did she love, and so dispense her care. }
Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,
As longer cultivated than the rest.
The babe had all that infant care beguiles,
And early knew his mother in her smiles:
But when dilated organs let in day
To the young soul, and gave it room to play,
At his first aptness, the maternal love
Those rudiments of reason did improve:
The tender age was pliant to command;
Like wax it yielded to the forming hand:
True to the artificer, the laboured mind
With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind;
Soft for impression, from the first prepared,
Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:
With every act confirmed, and made at last
So durable as not to be effaced,
It turned to habit; and, from vices free,
Goodness resolved into necessity.
Thus fixed she virtue's image, (that's her own,)
Till the whole mother in the children shone;
For that was their perfection: she was such,
They never could express her mind too much.
So unexhausted her perfections were,
That, for more children, she had more to spare;
For souls unborn, whom her untimely death
Deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath;
And, could they take the impressions of her mind,
Enough still left to sanctify her kind.
Then wonder not to see this soul extend
The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend;
As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide,
To seek repose, and empty out the tide;
So this full soul, in narrow limits pent,
Unable to contain her, sought a vent
To issue out, and in some friendly breast
Discharge her treasures, and securely rest;
To unbosom all the secrets of her heart,
Take good advice, but better to impart.
For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state, }
To mix their minds, and to communicate; }
Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate: }
Fixed to her choice, inviolably true,
And wisely choosing, for she chose but few.
Some she must have; but in no one could find
A tally fitted for so large a mind.
The souls of friends like kings in progress are,
Still in their own, though from the palace far:
Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was,
A sweet retirement to a coarser place;
Where pomp and ceremonies entered not,
Where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot.
This is the imperfect draught; but short as far }
As the true height and bigness of a star }
Exceeds the measures of the astronomer. }
She shines above, we know; but in what place,
How near the throne, and heaven's imperial face,
By our weak optics is but vainly guessed;
Distance and altitude conceal the rest.
Though all these rare endowments of the mind
Were in a narrow space of life confined,
The figure was with full perfection crowned;
Though not so large an orb, as truly round.
As when in glory, through the public place,
The spoils of conquered nations were to pass,
And but one day for triumph was allowed,
The consul was constrained his pomp to crowd;
And so the swift procession hurried on,
That all, though not distinctly, might be shewn:
So in the straitened bounds of life confined,
She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind;
And multitudes of virtues passed along,
Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng,
Ambitious to be seen, and then make room
For greater multitudes that were to come.
Yet unemployed no minute slipped away;
Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of heaven to have her was so great, }
That some were single acts, though each complete; }
But every act stood ready to repeat. }
Her fellow-saints with busy care will look
For her blest name in fate's eternal book;
And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see
Numberless virtues, endless charity:
But more will wonder at so short an age,
To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page;
And with a pious fear begin to doubt
The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.
But 'twas her Saviour's time;[91] and, could there be
A copy near the original, 'twas she.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple, and expire;
So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence;
A short sweet odour, of a vast expence.
She vanished, we can scarcely say she died;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide:
She passed serenely with a single breath;
This moment perfect health, the next was death:
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;
So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue,
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep;
So softly death succeeded life in her,
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice;
As an old friend is beckoned to a feast,
And treated like a long-familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go;
E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared,[92]
As early notice she from heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warning to remove;
Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay,
Clothed all in white, the livery of the day:[93]
Scarce had she sinned in thought, or word, or act,
Unless omissions were to pass for fact;
That hardly death a consequence could draw,
To make her liable to nature's law.
And, that she died, we only have to shew
The mortal part of her she left below;
The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went, }
Looked like translation through the firmament, }
Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent. }
O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,
Where thou art all intelligence, all eye,
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,
Survey the ruins of thy house, and see
Thy widowed and thy orphan family;
Look on thy tender pledges left behind;
And, if thou canst a vacant minute find
From heavenly joys, that interval afford
To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.
See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,
And shed a beam of comfort from above;
Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with moderate sorrow may sustain,
And mollify their losses in thy gain.
Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert, }
That should not all relations bear a part, }
It were enough to break a single heart. }
Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse
This humble tribute, of no vulgar muse;
Who, not by cares, or wants, or age deprest,
Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;
And dares to sing thy praises in a clime
Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime;
Where e'en to draw the picture of thy mind,
Is satire on the most of human kind:
Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;
So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence
From vice, but barely by departing hence.
Be what, and where thou art; to wish thy place,
Were, in the best, presumption more than grace.
Thy relics, (such thy works of mercy are)
Have, in this poem, been my holy care.
As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, }
So shall this verse preserve thy memory; }
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee. }


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 88: In allusion to the provision made in Egypt, during the
seven years of plenty, for the succeeding seven years of famine. ]

[Footnote 89: Lady Abingdon had six sons and three daughters. ]

[Footnote 90: Æneas descending to the shades, finds his father Anchises
engaged in the review of his posterity. --See _Æneid_, lib. vi. ]

[Footnote 91: Lady Abingdon died in her thirty-third year; at which age
Jesus Christ was crucified. ]

[Footnote 92: She died in a ball-room in her own house. ]

[Footnote 93: Whitsunday night. ]




ON

THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.


'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,
Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn,
When Damon, who designed to pass the day
With hounds and horns, and chace the flying prey,
Rose early from his bed; but soon he found }
The welkin pitched with sullen clouds around, }
An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground. }
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The fields, and curst the ill omens of the day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace:
Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
And sent his voice before him from afar.
"Return," he cried, "return, unhappy swain,
The spungy clouds are filled with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only crossed,
But even the spring, the spring itself is lost.
Amyntas--oh! "--he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guessed.
Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy,
The boast of nature, both his parents' joy.
His graceful form revolving in his mind;
So great a genius, and a soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;
Too well the envy of the gods he knew:
For when their gifts too lavishly are placed,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's soul.
Then thus he cried:--"The _morn_ bespoke the news;
The morning did her cheerful light diffuse;
But see how suddenly she changed her face, }
And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace; }
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race. }
What charms adorned thy youth, where nature smiled,
And more than man was given us in a child!
His infancy was ripe; a soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time:
Heaven gave him all at once; then snatched away, }
Ere mortals all his beauties could survey; }
Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day. }

MENALCAS.

The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,
Reclined his dying head upon her breast.
The mournful family stood all around; }
One groan was heard, one universal sound: }
All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drowned. }
So dire a sadness sat on every look,
Even death repented he had given the stroke.
He grieved his fatal work had been ordained,
But promised length of life to those who yet remained.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny controul;
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family!


DAMON.

Such is my wish, and such my prophecy;
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;
Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endued with equal grace!
Equal she may, but farther none can go;
For he was all that was exact below.


MENALCAS.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies,
And every moment gains upon the skies.
The new-come guest admires the ethereal state,
The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now admitted in the shining throng,
He shows the passport which he brought along.
His passport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire
Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire:
Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For, like Amyntas, none is left below.




ON

THE DEATH

OF

A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.


He, who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind,
Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er,
And, after some few leaves, should find no more.
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnished; so bestowed,
As more was never to one soul allowed:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recal,
Ere we could spare the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappeared, was rarefied,
For 'tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood;
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remained of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had washed it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.