The
relentless
beauty to whom
the lines were addressed, was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond;
called in the Memoires de Grammont, La Belle Stuart.
the lines were addressed, was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond;
called in the Memoires de Grammont, La Belle Stuart.
Dryden - Complete
}
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.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love;
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatched away.
Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone;
And yet we murmur that he went so soon,
Though miracles are short, and rarely shown.
Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
UPON
YOUNG MR ROGERS,
OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
_The family of Rogers seems to have been of considerable antiquity
in Gloucestershire. They possessed the estate of Dowdeswell during
the greater part of the 16th and 17th centuries. Many of their
monuments are in the church of Dowdeswell, of which they were
patrons. --See_ ATKYN'S Gloucestershire. _The subject of this epitaph
was probably of this family_.
Of gentle blood, his parents only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure.
Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race:
More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date,
Too early fitted for a better state:
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way.
ON THE DEATH OF
MR PURCELL.
IN MUSIC.
HENRY PURCELL, as a musician, is said by Burney to have been as much the
pride of an Englishman, as Shakespeare in the drama, Milton in epic
poetry, or Locke and Newton in their several departments of philosophy.
He was born in 1658, and died in 1695, at the premature age of 37 years.
Dryden, to whose productions he had frequently added the charms of
music, devoted a tribute to his memory in the following verses, which,
with others by inferior bards, were prefixed to a collection of
Purcell's music, published two years after his death, under the title of
ORPHEUS BRITANNICUS. The Ode was set to music by Dr Blow, and performed
at the concert in York Buildings. Dr Burney says, that the music is
composed in fugue and imitation; but appears laboured, and is wholly
without invention or pathos.
The "Orpheus Britannicus" being inscribed by the widow of Purcell to the
Hon. Lady Howard, both Sir John Hawkins and Dr Burney have been led into
the mistake of supposing, that the person so named was no other than
Lady Elizabeth Dryden, our author's wife. Mr Malone has detected this
error; and indeed the high compliments paid by the dedicator to Mr
Purcell's patroness, as an exquisite musician, a person of extensive
influence, and one whose munificence had covered the remains of Purcell
with "a fair monument," are irreconcileable with the character,
situation, and pecuniary circumstances of Lady Elizabeth Dryden. The
Lady Howard of the dedication must, unquestionably, have been the wife
of the Honourable Sir Robert Howard; whence it follows, that the
"honourable gentleman, who had the dearest, and most deserved relation
to her, and whose excellent compositions were the subject of Purcell's
last and best performances in music," was not our author, as has been
erroneously supposed, but his brother-in-law, the said Sir Robert
Howard, who continued to the last to be an occasional author, and to
contribute songs to the dramatic performances of the day. [94]
Although Dryden's lady certainly did not erect Purcell's monument, it is
more than probable, judging from internal evidence, that the poet
contributed the inscription, which runs thus:
_Here lies_
HENRY PURCELL, ESQ.
_Who left this life,
And is gone to that blessed place,
Where only his harmony
can be exceeded. _
_Obiit 21mo die Novembris,
Anno ætatis suæ 37mo,
Annoq. Domini, 1695. _
The stone over the grave bore the following epitaph:
_Plaudito, felices Superi, tanto hospite; nostris
Præfuerat, vestris additur ille choris:
Invida nec vobis Purcellum terra reposcat,
Questa decus secli, deliciasque breves
Tam cito decessisse, modos cui singula debet
Musa, prophana suos, religiosa suos:
Vivit Io et vivat, dum vicina organa spirant,
Dumque colet numeris turba canora Deum. _
Of the following ode, it may be briefly observed, that it displays much
conceit, and little pathos, although the introductory simile is
beautifully worded.
[Footnote 94: I have here inserted the Dedication which led to so
singular a mistake, as the "Orpheus Britannicus" is a scarce book. --"To
the Honourable Lady Howard. Madam, Were it in the power of music to
abate those strong impressions of grief which have continued upon me
ever since the loss of my dear lamented husband, there are few, I
believe, who are furnished with larger or better supplies of comfort
from this science, than he has left me in his own compositions, and in
the satisfaction I find, that they are not more valued by me, who must
own myself fond to a partiality of all that was his, than by those who
are no less judges than patrons of his performances. I find, madam, I
have already said enough to justify the presumption of this application
to your ladyship, who have added both these characters to the many
excellent qualities which make you the admiration of all that know you.
"Your ladyship's extraordinary skill in music, beyond most of either
sex, and your great goodness to that dear person, whom you have
sometimes been pleased to honour with the title of your master, makes it
hard for me to judge whether he contributed more to the vast
improvements you have made in that science, or your ladyship to the
reputation he gained in the profession of it: For I have often heard him
say, that, as several of his best compositions were originally designed
for your ladyship's entertainment, so the pains he bestowed in fitting
them for your ear, were abundantly rewarded by the satisfaction he has
received from your approbation and admirable performance of them, which
has best recommended both them and their author to all that have had the
happiness of hearing them from your ladyship.
"Another great advantage, to which my husband has often imputed the
success of his labours, and which may best plead for your ladyship's
favourable acceptance of this collection, has been the great justness
both of thought and numbers which he found in the poetry of our most
refined writers, and among them, of that honourable gentleman, who has
the dearest and most deserved relation to yourself, and whose excellent
compositions were the subject of his last and best performances in
music.
"Thus, madam, your ladyship has every way the justest titles to the
patronage of this book; the publication of which, under the auspicious
influence of your name, is the best (I had almost said the only) means I
have left, of testifying to the world, my desire to pay the last honours
to its dear author, your ladyship having generously prevented my
intended performance of the duty I owe to his ashes, by erecting a fair
monument over them, and gracing it with an inscription which may
perpetuate both the marble and his memory.
"Your generosity, which was too large to be confined either to his life
or person, has also extended itself to his posterity, on whom your
ladyship has been pleased to entail your favours, which must, with all
gratitude, be acknowledged as the most valuable part of their
inheritance, both by them, and your ladyship's most obliged, and most
humble servant,
FR. PURCELL. "
]
ON THE DEATH OF MR PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.
Mark how the lark and linnet sing,
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And, listening, silently obey.
II.
So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame.
Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man:
The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore;
Had he been there,
Their sovereign's fear
Had sent him back before.
The power of harmony too well they knew:
He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.
III.
The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,
Let down the scale of music from the sky;
They handed him along,
And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung.
Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice:
Now live secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.
_EPITAPH_ ON THE LADY WHITMORE.
_This was perhaps Frances, daughter of Sir William
Brooke, Knight of the Bath, and wife to Sir Thomas Whitmore,
Knight-Baronet_.
Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one;
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be returned,
So loved when living, and, when dead, so mourned.
EPITAPH ON MRS MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.
_This is an ancient and distinguished family in Norfolk. See
Bloomfield's topographical account of that shire_.
So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, }
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, }
Require at least an age in one to meet. }
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravished from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
John Powlet, fifth Marquis of Winchester, was remarkable for his steady
loyalty to Charles I. He garrisoned for the king his fine castle at
Basing, and underwent a siege of two years, from August 1643 to October
16th, 1645; on which day it was taken by Cromwell, by storm, after
having been defended with great gallantry to the very last extremity.
The Marquis had written, in every window of the house, with a diamond,
the motto _Aymez Loyaulté_. The parliamentary leaders, incensed at this
device, burned down this noble seat, (a conflagration which Cromwell
imputes to accident,) and destroyed and plundered property to the amount
of L. 200,000. The Marquis himself was made prisoner. The particulars of
this memorable siege were printed at Oxford, in 1645; and Oliver's
account of the storm is published in Collins's "Peerage," from a
manuscript in the Museum. The Marquis of Winchester survived the
Restoration; and, having died premier marquis of England in 1674, was
buried at Englefield. This monument, upon which our author's verses are
engraved, is made of black and white marble; and a compartment underneath
the lines bears this inscription: "The Lady Marchioness Dowager, in
testimony of her love and sorrow, gave this monument to the memory of a
most affectionate, tender husband. " On a flat marble stone, beneath the
monument, is the following epitaph: "Here lieth interred the body of the
most noble and mighty prince, John Powlet, Marquis of Winchester, Earl
of Wiltshire, Baron of St John of Basing, first Marquis of England: A
man of exemplary piety towards God, and of inviolable fidelity towards
his sovereign; in whose cause he fortified his house of Basing, and
defended it against the rebels to the last extremity. He married three
wives: the first was Jane, daughter of Thomas, Viscount Savage, and of
Elizabeth his wife, daughter and co-heir of Thomas Darcey, Earl of
Rivers; by whom he had issue Charles, now Marquis of Winchester. His
second wife was Honora, daughter of Richard Burgh, Earl of St Alban's
and Clanricarde, and of Frances, his wife, daughter and heir of Sir
Francis Walsingham, knight, and principal secretary of state to Queen
Elizabeth; by whom he had issue four sons and three daughters. His last
wife, who survived him, was Isabella, daughter of William, Viscount
Stafford, second son of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, Earl
Marshal of England, and of Mary his wife, sister and sole heir of Henry,
Lord Stafford, who was the heir-male of the most high, mighty, and most
noble Prince Edward, last Duke of Buckingham of that most illustrious
name and family, by whom he had no issue. He died in the 77th year of
his age, on the 5th of March, in the year of our Lord 1674. --By Edward
Walker, Garter King of Arms. "
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
He who, in impious times, undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirmed the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompence.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear;
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer, such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.
EPITAPH
ON
SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB
IN
WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
_Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir_ PALMES FAIRBONE, _Knight,
Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command he was mortally
wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town, in the
forty-sixth year of his age, October_ 24, 1680.
Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturbed by wars, in quiet sleep;
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below, }
Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, }
And be the town's palladium from the foe. }
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserved applause, }
Against the Moors his well-fleshed sword he draws; }
The same the courage, and the same the cause. }
His youth and age, his life and death, combine, }
As in some great and regular design, }
All of a piece throughout, and all divine. }
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright, }
Like rising flames expanding in their height; }
The martyr's glory crowned the soldier's fight. }
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well;
Which his pleased eyes beheld before their close,
Followed by thousand victims of his foes. [95]
To his lamented loss, for time to come,
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.
[Footnote 95: The following account of the manner in which Sir Palmes
Fairbone fell, and of the revenge to which the author alludes, is taken
from the Gazette of the time:
"_Malaga, November 12. _--Three days since arrived here a small vessel,
which stopped at Tangier, from whence we have letters, which give an
account, that on the 2d instant, Sir Palmes Fairbone, the governor, as
he was riding without the town with a party of horse, to observe what
the Moors were doing, was shot by one of them, and, being mortally
wounded, fell from his horse: That the Moors had intrenched themselves
near the town, whereupon the whole garrison, consisting of 4000 horse
and foot, sallied out upon them, commanded by Colonel Sackville: That
they marched out in the night; but were quickly discovered by the Moors'
sentinels, who immediately gave the alarm: That in the morning there was
a very sharp engagement, which lasted six hours; and then the Moors, who
were above 20,000, fled, and were pursued by the English, who killed
above 1500 of them, took four of their greatest guns, and filled up all
the trenches, and then retired to the town with several prisoners,
having obtained a most signal victory, wherein the Spanish horse behaved
themselves as well as men could do. The day the said vessel came from
Tangier, which was the 7th, they heard much shooting, which makes us
believe there has been a second engagement.
"_Malaga, November 12_, (1680. )--By a vessel arrived from Tangier, we
have advice, that on Wednesday last all the force of that garrison took
the field, and gave battle to about 30,000 Moors. The Spanish horse and
800 seamen marched in the van, the English horse with the main body.
The fight lasted near six hours, with the slaughter of between 1500 and
2000 Moors, and of 150 of the garrison: That the Moors fled; the English
kept the field; took six pieces of cannon, and six colours. Every
soldier that brought in a flag had thirty guineas given to him; and
every one that took a Moor prisoner had him for his encouragement. There
were about twenty taken; and 300 bodies of Moors were dragged together
in one heap, and as many heads in another pile. But the great misfortune
was, that the Saturday before, the governor, as he was walking under the
walls, received a mortal wound, which the Spanish horse so bravely
resented, that immediately, without command, they mounted and charged
the Moors with that courage, that they killed many of them, with the
loss of seven or eight of themselves. Before this action, the Moors were
so near the walls of the town, that with hand-slings they pelted our
soldiers with stones. "--_London Gazette_, No. 1567.
"_Whitehall, November 27. _--Yesterday morning arrived here
Lieutenant-colonel Talmash from Tangier, and gave his Majesty an
account, that Colonel Sackville, who has now the chief command, (Sir
Palmes Fairbone, the late governor, having been unfortunately wounded
with a musket shot on the 24th past, of which he died three days after,)
finding that the Moors began to approach very near to Pole-fort, and
were preparing to mine it, called a council of war, and, pursuant to
what was there resolved, marched out on the 27th with 1500 foot and 300
horse, and fell upon the Moors with so much bravery, that,
notwithstanding the inequality of their number, and the stout resistance
they made, they beat them out of the trenches, and from their several
lines, and gave them a total defeat; pursuing them a mile into the
country, with a great slaughter of them; filling up their trenches, and
levelling their lines, and taking two pieces of cannon, five colours,
and several prisoners; though with the loss of many officers and private
soldiers killed and wounded on our side. "--_Ibidem_, No. 1569. ]
ON
THE MONUMENT
OF A
FAIR MAIDEN LADY,
WHO DIED AT BATH,
AND IS THERE INTERRED.
_This lady lies buried in the Abbey-Church at Bath. The lines are
accompanied by the following inscription upon a monument of white
marble: "Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard
Frampton of Moreton, in Dorsetshire, Esq. and of Jane his wife, sole
daughter of Sir Francis Cothington of Founthill, in Wilts, who was
born January 1, 1676, and died, after seven weeks illness, on the
6th of September, 1698. _
_"This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister
and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and
gratitude. "_
Below this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consigned;
The mold was made on purpose for the mind:
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mixed of other clay;
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were formed with such harmonious grace:
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry revealed,
And like a picture shone, in glass annealed;
Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light;
Too piercing, else, to be sustained by sight.
Each thought was visible that rolled within;
As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies,
For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind; }
As if she could not, or she would not find }
How much her worth transcended all her kind. }
Yet she had learned so much of heaven below,
That when arrived, she scarce had more to know;
But only to refresh the former hint,
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer;
Yet in such charities she passed the day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which passion could but curl, not discompose.
A female softness, with a manly mind; }
A daughter duteous, and a sister kind; }
In sickness patient, and in death resigned. }
UNDER
MR MILTON'S PICTURE,
BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST.
_This inscription appeared under the engraving prefixed to Tonson's
folio edition of the Paradise Lost, published by subscription, under the
patronage of Somers, in 1688. Dryden was one of the subscribers.
Atterbury, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, was active in procuring
subscribers. See a letter of his to Tonson_, MALONE'S Life of Dryden, p.
203.
_Mr Malone regards Dryden's hexastich as an amplification of Selvaggi's
distich, addressed to Milton while at Rome:_
Græcia Mœonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.
* * * * *
Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both, the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
ODES, SONGS,
AND
LYRICAL PIECES.
FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA.
A SONG.
_This Song was written on the death of Captain Digby, a younger son of
the Earl of Bristol, who was killed in the great sea-fight between the
English and Dutch, on the 28th May, 1672.
The relentless beauty to whom
the lines were addressed, was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond;
called in the Memoires de Grammont, La Belle Stuart. Count Hamilton
there assures us, that her charms made conquest of Charles II. and were
the occasion of much jealousy to the Countess of Castlemaine. Dryden's
song is parodied in "The Rehearsal," in that made by "Tom Thimble's
first wife after she was dead. " "Farewell, fair Armida," is printed in
the Covent-Garden Drollery, 1672, p. 16. where there is an exculpatory
answer by the Lady, but of little merit. _
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now called by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love were to find, by delay,
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight--not to cost you a tear;
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh--_it was given by me_.
THE
FAIR STRANGER,
A SONG.
_These verses are addressed to Louise de la Querouailles. That lady
came to England with the Duchess of Orleans, when she visited her
brother Charles II. in 1670. The beauty of this fair stranger made
the intended impression on Charles; he detained her in England, and
created her Duchess of Portsmouth. Notwithstanding the detestation
in which she was held by his subjects, on account of her religion,
country, and politics, she continued to be Charles's principal
favourite till the very hour of his death, when he recommended her
and her son to his successor's protection. _
I.
Happy and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair
To find a new victorious fair:
II.
Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without controul,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.
III.
Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country's arms;
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.
IV.
But in your eyes, O! there's the spell!
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay;
Yet kill us if you go away.
A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY.
ST CECILIA was, according to her legend, a Roman virgin of rank, who
flourished during the reign of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. She was a
Christian, and, by her purity of life, and constant employment in the
praises of her Maker, while yet on earth, obtained intercourse with an
angel. Being married to Valerianus, a Pagan, she not only prevailed upon
him to abstain from using any familiarity with her person, but converted
him and his brother to Christianity. They were all martyrs for the faith
in the reign of Septimius Severus. Chaucer has celebrated this legend in
the "Second Nonne's Tale," which is almost a literal translation from
the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus Januensis. As all professions and
fraternities, in ancient times, made choice of a tutelar saint, Cecilia
was elected the protectress of music and musicians. It was even believed
that she had invented the organ, although no good authority can be
discovered for such an assertion. Her festival was celebrated from an
early period by those of the profession over whom she presided.
The revival of letters, with the Restoration, was attended with a
similar resuscitation of the musical art; but the formation of a Musical
Society, for the annual commemoration of St Cecilia's day, did not take
place until 1680. An ode, written for the occasion, was set to music by
the most able professor, and rehearsed before the society and their
stewards upon the 22d November, the day dedicated to the patroness. The
first effusions of this kind are miserable enough. Mr Malone has
preserved a few verses of an ode, by an anonymous author, in 1633; that
of 1684 was furnished by Oldham, whom our author has commemorated by an
elegy; that of 1685 was written by Nahum Tate, and is given by Mr
Malone, Vol. I. p. 274. There was no performance in 1686; and, in 1687,
Dryden furnished the following ode, which was set to music by Draghi, an
eminent Italian composer. Of the annual festival, Motteux gives the
following account:
"The 22d of November, being St Cecilia's day, is observed throughout all
Europe by the lovers of music. In Italy, Germany, France, and other
countries, prizes are distributed on that day, in some of the most
considerable towns, to such as make the best anthem in her praise. . . . On
that day, or the next when it falls on a Sunday, . . . most of the lovers
of music, whereof many are persons of the first rank, meet at
Stationers' Hall in London, not through a principle of superstition, but
to propagate the advancement of that divine science. A splendid
entertainment is provided, and before it is always a performance of
music, by the best voices and hands in town: the words, which are always
in the patronesses praise, are set by some of the greatest masters. This
year [1691] Dr John Blow, that famous musician, composed the music; and
Mr D'Urfey, whose skill in things of that nature is well known, made the
words. Six stewards are chosen for each ensuing year; four of which are
either persons of quality or gentlemen of note, and the two last either
gentlemen of their majesties music, or some of the chief masters in
town. . . . This feast is one of the genteelest in the world; there are no
formalities nor gatherings as at others, and the appearance there is
always very splendid. Whilst the company is at table, the hautboys and
trumpets play successively. "
The merit of the following Ode has been so completely lost in that of
"Alexander's Feast," that few readers give themselves even the trouble
of attending to it. Yet the first stanza has exquisite merit; and
although the power of music is announced, in those which follow, in a
manner more abstracted and general, and, therefore, less striking than
when its influence upon Alexander and his chiefs is placed before our
eyes, it is perhaps only our intimate acquaintance with the second ode
that leads us to undervalue the first, although containing the original
ideas, so exquisitely brought out and embodied in "Alexander's Feast. "
A
SONG
FOR
ST CECILIA'S DAY,
22D NOVEMBER, 1687.
I.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead. "
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began;
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason[96] closing full in man.
II.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
III.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, hark! the foes come:
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat.
IV.
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers;
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
V.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
VI.
But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
VII.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ[97] vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 96: The diapason, with musicians, is a chord including all
notes. Perhaps Dryden remembered Spenser's allegorical description of
the human figure and faculties:
"The frame thereof seemed partly circular,
And part triangular; O, work divine!
These two, the first and last, propitious are;
The one imperfect, mortal feminine,
The other immortal, perfect, masculine;
And 'twixt them both a quadrate was the base,
Proportioned equally by seven and nine;
Nine was the circle set in heaven's place;
All which compacted made a goodly diapase. "
_Fairy Queen_, Book II. canto ix. stanza 22.
]
[Footnote 97: St Cecilia is said to have invented the organ, though it
is not known when or how she came by this credit. Chaucer introduces her
as performing upon that instrument:
"And while that the organes maden melodie,
To God alone thus in her heart sung she. "
The descent of the angel we have already mentioned. She thus announces
this celestial attendant to her husband:
"I have an angel which that loveth me;
That with great love, wher so I wake or slepe,
Is ready aye my body for to kepe. "
_The Second Nonne's Tale. _
]
THE
TEARS OF AMYNTA,
FOR THE
DEATH OF DAMON.
A SONG.
I.
On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sighed alone;
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus, she made her moan:
Hope is banished,
Joys are vanished,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
II.
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth, and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me:
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses;
Who so lived and loved as we!
III.
Never shall we curse the morning,
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, love supplying
All the joys he drained before.
Death, come end me,
To befriend me;
Love and Damon are no more.
A SONG.
I.
Sylvia, the fair, in the bloom of fifteen,
Felt an innocent warmth as she lay on the green;
She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest
By the towzing, and tumbling, and touching her breast.
She saw the men eager, but was at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
II.
Ah! she cried, ah, for a languishing maid,
In a country of Christians, to die without aid!
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least,
Or a Protestant parson, or Catholic priest,
To instruct a young virgin, that is at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close!
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
III.
Cupid, in shape of a swain, did appear,
He saw the sad wound, and in pity drew near;
Then showed her his arrow, and bid her not fear,
For the pain was no more than a maiden may bear.
When the balm was infused, she was not at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
THE LADY'S SONG.
_The obvious application of this song is to the banishment of King
James, and his beautiful consort Mary of Este. _
I.
A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To chuse a May-lady to govern the year:
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen;
But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banished, and Love is no more;
The soft god of pleasure, that warmed our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires,
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the deity swore:
But, if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep hooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
A SONG.
I.
Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
II.
Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.
III.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
A SONG.
High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.
RONDELAY.
I.
Chloe found Amyntas lying,
All in tears, upon the plain,
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
II.
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
III.
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain. --
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain,
IV.
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain;
But, repenting, and complying,
When he kissed, she kissed again:
Kissed him up before his dying;
Kissed him up, and eased his pain.
A SONG.
I.
Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain:
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To souls oppressed, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief,
That music should in sounds convey,
What dying lovers dare not say.
II.
A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live.
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.
Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress;
But, ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.
A SONG
TO A
FAIR YOUNG LADY,
GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING.
I.
Ask not the cause, why sullen spring
So long delays her flowers to bear?
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year?
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it spring where she resides.
II.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye;
But left her lover in despair,
To sigh, to languish, and to die.
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure,
To give the wounds they will not cure!
III.
Great god of love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst placed such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
IV.
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recal.
I only am, by love, designed
To be the victim for mankind.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST,
OR
THE POWER OF MUSIC;
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIA'S DAY.
_This celebrated Ode was written for the Saint's Festival in 1697,
when the following stewards officiated: Hugh Colvill, Esq. ; Capt.
Thomas Newman; Orlando Bridgeman, Esq. ; Theophilus Buller, Esq. ;
Leonard Wessell, Esq. ; Paris Slaughter, Esq. ; Jeremiah Clarke,
Gent. ; and Francis Rich, Gent. The merits of this unequalled
effusion of lyrical poetry, are fully discussed in the general
criticism. _
I.
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned. )
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
CHORUS.
_Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair. _
II.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love. )
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then, round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
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.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love;
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatched away.
Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone;
And yet we murmur that he went so soon,
Though miracles are short, and rarely shown.
Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
UPON
YOUNG MR ROGERS,
OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
_The family of Rogers seems to have been of considerable antiquity
in Gloucestershire. They possessed the estate of Dowdeswell during
the greater part of the 16th and 17th centuries. Many of their
monuments are in the church of Dowdeswell, of which they were
patrons. --See_ ATKYN'S Gloucestershire. _The subject of this epitaph
was probably of this family_.
Of gentle blood, his parents only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure.
Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race:
More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date,
Too early fitted for a better state:
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way.
ON THE DEATH OF
MR PURCELL.
IN MUSIC.
HENRY PURCELL, as a musician, is said by Burney to have been as much the
pride of an Englishman, as Shakespeare in the drama, Milton in epic
poetry, or Locke and Newton in their several departments of philosophy.
He was born in 1658, and died in 1695, at the premature age of 37 years.
Dryden, to whose productions he had frequently added the charms of
music, devoted a tribute to his memory in the following verses, which,
with others by inferior bards, were prefixed to a collection of
Purcell's music, published two years after his death, under the title of
ORPHEUS BRITANNICUS. The Ode was set to music by Dr Blow, and performed
at the concert in York Buildings. Dr Burney says, that the music is
composed in fugue and imitation; but appears laboured, and is wholly
without invention or pathos.
The "Orpheus Britannicus" being inscribed by the widow of Purcell to the
Hon. Lady Howard, both Sir John Hawkins and Dr Burney have been led into
the mistake of supposing, that the person so named was no other than
Lady Elizabeth Dryden, our author's wife. Mr Malone has detected this
error; and indeed the high compliments paid by the dedicator to Mr
Purcell's patroness, as an exquisite musician, a person of extensive
influence, and one whose munificence had covered the remains of Purcell
with "a fair monument," are irreconcileable with the character,
situation, and pecuniary circumstances of Lady Elizabeth Dryden. The
Lady Howard of the dedication must, unquestionably, have been the wife
of the Honourable Sir Robert Howard; whence it follows, that the
"honourable gentleman, who had the dearest, and most deserved relation
to her, and whose excellent compositions were the subject of Purcell's
last and best performances in music," was not our author, as has been
erroneously supposed, but his brother-in-law, the said Sir Robert
Howard, who continued to the last to be an occasional author, and to
contribute songs to the dramatic performances of the day. [94]
Although Dryden's lady certainly did not erect Purcell's monument, it is
more than probable, judging from internal evidence, that the poet
contributed the inscription, which runs thus:
_Here lies_
HENRY PURCELL, ESQ.
_Who left this life,
And is gone to that blessed place,
Where only his harmony
can be exceeded. _
_Obiit 21mo die Novembris,
Anno ætatis suæ 37mo,
Annoq. Domini, 1695. _
The stone over the grave bore the following epitaph:
_Plaudito, felices Superi, tanto hospite; nostris
Præfuerat, vestris additur ille choris:
Invida nec vobis Purcellum terra reposcat,
Questa decus secli, deliciasque breves
Tam cito decessisse, modos cui singula debet
Musa, prophana suos, religiosa suos:
Vivit Io et vivat, dum vicina organa spirant,
Dumque colet numeris turba canora Deum. _
Of the following ode, it may be briefly observed, that it displays much
conceit, and little pathos, although the introductory simile is
beautifully worded.
[Footnote 94: I have here inserted the Dedication which led to so
singular a mistake, as the "Orpheus Britannicus" is a scarce book. --"To
the Honourable Lady Howard. Madam, Were it in the power of music to
abate those strong impressions of grief which have continued upon me
ever since the loss of my dear lamented husband, there are few, I
believe, who are furnished with larger or better supplies of comfort
from this science, than he has left me in his own compositions, and in
the satisfaction I find, that they are not more valued by me, who must
own myself fond to a partiality of all that was his, than by those who
are no less judges than patrons of his performances. I find, madam, I
have already said enough to justify the presumption of this application
to your ladyship, who have added both these characters to the many
excellent qualities which make you the admiration of all that know you.
"Your ladyship's extraordinary skill in music, beyond most of either
sex, and your great goodness to that dear person, whom you have
sometimes been pleased to honour with the title of your master, makes it
hard for me to judge whether he contributed more to the vast
improvements you have made in that science, or your ladyship to the
reputation he gained in the profession of it: For I have often heard him
say, that, as several of his best compositions were originally designed
for your ladyship's entertainment, so the pains he bestowed in fitting
them for your ear, were abundantly rewarded by the satisfaction he has
received from your approbation and admirable performance of them, which
has best recommended both them and their author to all that have had the
happiness of hearing them from your ladyship.
"Another great advantage, to which my husband has often imputed the
success of his labours, and which may best plead for your ladyship's
favourable acceptance of this collection, has been the great justness
both of thought and numbers which he found in the poetry of our most
refined writers, and among them, of that honourable gentleman, who has
the dearest and most deserved relation to yourself, and whose excellent
compositions were the subject of his last and best performances in
music.
"Thus, madam, your ladyship has every way the justest titles to the
patronage of this book; the publication of which, under the auspicious
influence of your name, is the best (I had almost said the only) means I
have left, of testifying to the world, my desire to pay the last honours
to its dear author, your ladyship having generously prevented my
intended performance of the duty I owe to his ashes, by erecting a fair
monument over them, and gracing it with an inscription which may
perpetuate both the marble and his memory.
"Your generosity, which was too large to be confined either to his life
or person, has also extended itself to his posterity, on whom your
ladyship has been pleased to entail your favours, which must, with all
gratitude, be acknowledged as the most valuable part of their
inheritance, both by them, and your ladyship's most obliged, and most
humble servant,
FR. PURCELL. "
]
ON THE DEATH OF MR PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.
Mark how the lark and linnet sing,
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And, listening, silently obey.
II.
So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame.
Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man:
The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore;
Had he been there,
Their sovereign's fear
Had sent him back before.
The power of harmony too well they knew:
He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.
III.
The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,
Let down the scale of music from the sky;
They handed him along,
And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung.
Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice:
Now live secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.
_EPITAPH_ ON THE LADY WHITMORE.
_This was perhaps Frances, daughter of Sir William
Brooke, Knight of the Bath, and wife to Sir Thomas Whitmore,
Knight-Baronet_.
Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one;
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be returned,
So loved when living, and, when dead, so mourned.
EPITAPH ON MRS MARGARET PASTON, OF BURNINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.
_This is an ancient and distinguished family in Norfolk. See
Bloomfield's topographical account of that shire_.
So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, }
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, }
Require at least an age in one to meet. }
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravished from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
John Powlet, fifth Marquis of Winchester, was remarkable for his steady
loyalty to Charles I. He garrisoned for the king his fine castle at
Basing, and underwent a siege of two years, from August 1643 to October
16th, 1645; on which day it was taken by Cromwell, by storm, after
having been defended with great gallantry to the very last extremity.
The Marquis had written, in every window of the house, with a diamond,
the motto _Aymez Loyaulté_. The parliamentary leaders, incensed at this
device, burned down this noble seat, (a conflagration which Cromwell
imputes to accident,) and destroyed and plundered property to the amount
of L. 200,000. The Marquis himself was made prisoner. The particulars of
this memorable siege were printed at Oxford, in 1645; and Oliver's
account of the storm is published in Collins's "Peerage," from a
manuscript in the Museum. The Marquis of Winchester survived the
Restoration; and, having died premier marquis of England in 1674, was
buried at Englefield. This monument, upon which our author's verses are
engraved, is made of black and white marble; and a compartment underneath
the lines bears this inscription: "The Lady Marchioness Dowager, in
testimony of her love and sorrow, gave this monument to the memory of a
most affectionate, tender husband. " On a flat marble stone, beneath the
monument, is the following epitaph: "Here lieth interred the body of the
most noble and mighty prince, John Powlet, Marquis of Winchester, Earl
of Wiltshire, Baron of St John of Basing, first Marquis of England: A
man of exemplary piety towards God, and of inviolable fidelity towards
his sovereign; in whose cause he fortified his house of Basing, and
defended it against the rebels to the last extremity. He married three
wives: the first was Jane, daughter of Thomas, Viscount Savage, and of
Elizabeth his wife, daughter and co-heir of Thomas Darcey, Earl of
Rivers; by whom he had issue Charles, now Marquis of Winchester. His
second wife was Honora, daughter of Richard Burgh, Earl of St Alban's
and Clanricarde, and of Frances, his wife, daughter and heir of Sir
Francis Walsingham, knight, and principal secretary of state to Queen
Elizabeth; by whom he had issue four sons and three daughters. His last
wife, who survived him, was Isabella, daughter of William, Viscount
Stafford, second son of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, Earl
Marshal of England, and of Mary his wife, sister and sole heir of Henry,
Lord Stafford, who was the heir-male of the most high, mighty, and most
noble Prince Edward, last Duke of Buckingham of that most illustrious
name and family, by whom he had no issue. He died in the 77th year of
his age, on the 5th of March, in the year of our Lord 1674. --By Edward
Walker, Garter King of Arms. "
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
He who, in impious times, undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirmed the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompence.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear;
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer, such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.
EPITAPH
ON
SIR PALMES FAIRBONE'S TOMB
IN
WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
_Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir_ PALMES FAIRBONE, _Knight,
Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command he was mortally
wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town, in the
forty-sixth year of his age, October_ 24, 1680.
Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturbed by wars, in quiet sleep;
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below, }
Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, }
And be the town's palladium from the foe. }
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserved applause, }
Against the Moors his well-fleshed sword he draws; }
The same the courage, and the same the cause. }
His youth and age, his life and death, combine, }
As in some great and regular design, }
All of a piece throughout, and all divine. }
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright, }
Like rising flames expanding in their height; }
The martyr's glory crowned the soldier's fight. }
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well;
Which his pleased eyes beheld before their close,
Followed by thousand victims of his foes. [95]
To his lamented loss, for time to come,
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.
[Footnote 95: The following account of the manner in which Sir Palmes
Fairbone fell, and of the revenge to which the author alludes, is taken
from the Gazette of the time:
"_Malaga, November 12. _--Three days since arrived here a small vessel,
which stopped at Tangier, from whence we have letters, which give an
account, that on the 2d instant, Sir Palmes Fairbone, the governor, as
he was riding without the town with a party of horse, to observe what
the Moors were doing, was shot by one of them, and, being mortally
wounded, fell from his horse: That the Moors had intrenched themselves
near the town, whereupon the whole garrison, consisting of 4000 horse
and foot, sallied out upon them, commanded by Colonel Sackville: That
they marched out in the night; but were quickly discovered by the Moors'
sentinels, who immediately gave the alarm: That in the morning there was
a very sharp engagement, which lasted six hours; and then the Moors, who
were above 20,000, fled, and were pursued by the English, who killed
above 1500 of them, took four of their greatest guns, and filled up all
the trenches, and then retired to the town with several prisoners,
having obtained a most signal victory, wherein the Spanish horse behaved
themselves as well as men could do. The day the said vessel came from
Tangier, which was the 7th, they heard much shooting, which makes us
believe there has been a second engagement.
"_Malaga, November 12_, (1680. )--By a vessel arrived from Tangier, we
have advice, that on Wednesday last all the force of that garrison took
the field, and gave battle to about 30,000 Moors. The Spanish horse and
800 seamen marched in the van, the English horse with the main body.
The fight lasted near six hours, with the slaughter of between 1500 and
2000 Moors, and of 150 of the garrison: That the Moors fled; the English
kept the field; took six pieces of cannon, and six colours. Every
soldier that brought in a flag had thirty guineas given to him; and
every one that took a Moor prisoner had him for his encouragement. There
were about twenty taken; and 300 bodies of Moors were dragged together
in one heap, and as many heads in another pile. But the great misfortune
was, that the Saturday before, the governor, as he was walking under the
walls, received a mortal wound, which the Spanish horse so bravely
resented, that immediately, without command, they mounted and charged
the Moors with that courage, that they killed many of them, with the
loss of seven or eight of themselves. Before this action, the Moors were
so near the walls of the town, that with hand-slings they pelted our
soldiers with stones. "--_London Gazette_, No. 1567.
"_Whitehall, November 27. _--Yesterday morning arrived here
Lieutenant-colonel Talmash from Tangier, and gave his Majesty an
account, that Colonel Sackville, who has now the chief command, (Sir
Palmes Fairbone, the late governor, having been unfortunately wounded
with a musket shot on the 24th past, of which he died three days after,)
finding that the Moors began to approach very near to Pole-fort, and
were preparing to mine it, called a council of war, and, pursuant to
what was there resolved, marched out on the 27th with 1500 foot and 300
horse, and fell upon the Moors with so much bravery, that,
notwithstanding the inequality of their number, and the stout resistance
they made, they beat them out of the trenches, and from their several
lines, and gave them a total defeat; pursuing them a mile into the
country, with a great slaughter of them; filling up their trenches, and
levelling their lines, and taking two pieces of cannon, five colours,
and several prisoners; though with the loss of many officers and private
soldiers killed and wounded on our side. "--_Ibidem_, No. 1569. ]
ON
THE MONUMENT
OF A
FAIR MAIDEN LADY,
WHO DIED AT BATH,
AND IS THERE INTERRED.
_This lady lies buried in the Abbey-Church at Bath. The lines are
accompanied by the following inscription upon a monument of white
marble: "Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard
Frampton of Moreton, in Dorsetshire, Esq. and of Jane his wife, sole
daughter of Sir Francis Cothington of Founthill, in Wilts, who was
born January 1, 1676, and died, after seven weeks illness, on the
6th of September, 1698. _
_"This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister
and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and
gratitude. "_
Below this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consigned;
The mold was made on purpose for the mind:
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mixed of other clay;
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were formed with such harmonious grace:
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry revealed,
And like a picture shone, in glass annealed;
Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light;
Too piercing, else, to be sustained by sight.
Each thought was visible that rolled within;
As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies,
For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes.
High though her wit, yet humble was her mind; }
As if she could not, or she would not find }
How much her worth transcended all her kind. }
Yet she had learned so much of heaven below,
That when arrived, she scarce had more to know;
But only to refresh the former hint,
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer;
Yet in such charities she passed the day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which passion could but curl, not discompose.
A female softness, with a manly mind; }
A daughter duteous, and a sister kind; }
In sickness patient, and in death resigned. }
UNDER
MR MILTON'S PICTURE,
BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST.
_This inscription appeared under the engraving prefixed to Tonson's
folio edition of the Paradise Lost, published by subscription, under the
patronage of Somers, in 1688. Dryden was one of the subscribers.
Atterbury, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, was active in procuring
subscribers. See a letter of his to Tonson_, MALONE'S Life of Dryden, p.
203.
_Mr Malone regards Dryden's hexastich as an amplification of Selvaggi's
distich, addressed to Milton while at Rome:_
Græcia Mœonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.
* * * * *
Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both, the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
ODES, SONGS,
AND
LYRICAL PIECES.
FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA.
A SONG.
_This Song was written on the death of Captain Digby, a younger son of
the Earl of Bristol, who was killed in the great sea-fight between the
English and Dutch, on the 28th May, 1672.
The relentless beauty to whom
the lines were addressed, was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond;
called in the Memoires de Grammont, La Belle Stuart. Count Hamilton
there assures us, that her charms made conquest of Charles II. and were
the occasion of much jealousy to the Countess of Castlemaine. Dryden's
song is parodied in "The Rehearsal," in that made by "Tom Thimble's
first wife after she was dead. " "Farewell, fair Armida," is printed in
the Covent-Garden Drollery, 1672, p. 16. where there is an exculpatory
answer by the Lady, but of little merit. _
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now called by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love were to find, by delay,
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight--not to cost you a tear;
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh--_it was given by me_.
THE
FAIR STRANGER,
A SONG.
_These verses are addressed to Louise de la Querouailles. That lady
came to England with the Duchess of Orleans, when she visited her
brother Charles II. in 1670. The beauty of this fair stranger made
the intended impression on Charles; he detained her in England, and
created her Duchess of Portsmouth. Notwithstanding the detestation
in which she was held by his subjects, on account of her religion,
country, and politics, she continued to be Charles's principal
favourite till the very hour of his death, when he recommended her
and her son to his successor's protection. _
I.
Happy and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair
To find a new victorious fair:
II.
Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without controul,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.
III.
Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country's arms;
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.
IV.
But in your eyes, O! there's the spell!
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay;
Yet kill us if you go away.
A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY.
ST CECILIA was, according to her legend, a Roman virgin of rank, who
flourished during the reign of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. She was a
Christian, and, by her purity of life, and constant employment in the
praises of her Maker, while yet on earth, obtained intercourse with an
angel. Being married to Valerianus, a Pagan, she not only prevailed upon
him to abstain from using any familiarity with her person, but converted
him and his brother to Christianity. They were all martyrs for the faith
in the reign of Septimius Severus. Chaucer has celebrated this legend in
the "Second Nonne's Tale," which is almost a literal translation from
the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus Januensis. As all professions and
fraternities, in ancient times, made choice of a tutelar saint, Cecilia
was elected the protectress of music and musicians. It was even believed
that she had invented the organ, although no good authority can be
discovered for such an assertion. Her festival was celebrated from an
early period by those of the profession over whom she presided.
The revival of letters, with the Restoration, was attended with a
similar resuscitation of the musical art; but the formation of a Musical
Society, for the annual commemoration of St Cecilia's day, did not take
place until 1680. An ode, written for the occasion, was set to music by
the most able professor, and rehearsed before the society and their
stewards upon the 22d November, the day dedicated to the patroness. The
first effusions of this kind are miserable enough. Mr Malone has
preserved a few verses of an ode, by an anonymous author, in 1633; that
of 1684 was furnished by Oldham, whom our author has commemorated by an
elegy; that of 1685 was written by Nahum Tate, and is given by Mr
Malone, Vol. I. p. 274. There was no performance in 1686; and, in 1687,
Dryden furnished the following ode, which was set to music by Draghi, an
eminent Italian composer. Of the annual festival, Motteux gives the
following account:
"The 22d of November, being St Cecilia's day, is observed throughout all
Europe by the lovers of music. In Italy, Germany, France, and other
countries, prizes are distributed on that day, in some of the most
considerable towns, to such as make the best anthem in her praise. . . . On
that day, or the next when it falls on a Sunday, . . . most of the lovers
of music, whereof many are persons of the first rank, meet at
Stationers' Hall in London, not through a principle of superstition, but
to propagate the advancement of that divine science. A splendid
entertainment is provided, and before it is always a performance of
music, by the best voices and hands in town: the words, which are always
in the patronesses praise, are set by some of the greatest masters. This
year [1691] Dr John Blow, that famous musician, composed the music; and
Mr D'Urfey, whose skill in things of that nature is well known, made the
words. Six stewards are chosen for each ensuing year; four of which are
either persons of quality or gentlemen of note, and the two last either
gentlemen of their majesties music, or some of the chief masters in
town. . . . This feast is one of the genteelest in the world; there are no
formalities nor gatherings as at others, and the appearance there is
always very splendid. Whilst the company is at table, the hautboys and
trumpets play successively. "
The merit of the following Ode has been so completely lost in that of
"Alexander's Feast," that few readers give themselves even the trouble
of attending to it. Yet the first stanza has exquisite merit; and
although the power of music is announced, in those which follow, in a
manner more abstracted and general, and, therefore, less striking than
when its influence upon Alexander and his chiefs is placed before our
eyes, it is perhaps only our intimate acquaintance with the second ode
that leads us to undervalue the first, although containing the original
ideas, so exquisitely brought out and embodied in "Alexander's Feast. "
A
SONG
FOR
ST CECILIA'S DAY,
22D NOVEMBER, 1687.
I.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
"Arise, ye more than dead. "
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began;
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason[96] closing full in man.
II.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
III.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, hark! the foes come:
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat.
IV.
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers;
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
V.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
VI.
But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
VII.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ[97] vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 96: The diapason, with musicians, is a chord including all
notes. Perhaps Dryden remembered Spenser's allegorical description of
the human figure and faculties:
"The frame thereof seemed partly circular,
And part triangular; O, work divine!
These two, the first and last, propitious are;
The one imperfect, mortal feminine,
The other immortal, perfect, masculine;
And 'twixt them both a quadrate was the base,
Proportioned equally by seven and nine;
Nine was the circle set in heaven's place;
All which compacted made a goodly diapase. "
_Fairy Queen_, Book II. canto ix. stanza 22.
]
[Footnote 97: St Cecilia is said to have invented the organ, though it
is not known when or how she came by this credit. Chaucer introduces her
as performing upon that instrument:
"And while that the organes maden melodie,
To God alone thus in her heart sung she. "
The descent of the angel we have already mentioned. She thus announces
this celestial attendant to her husband:
"I have an angel which that loveth me;
That with great love, wher so I wake or slepe,
Is ready aye my body for to kepe. "
_The Second Nonne's Tale. _
]
THE
TEARS OF AMYNTA,
FOR THE
DEATH OF DAMON.
A SONG.
I.
On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sighed alone;
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus, she made her moan:
Hope is banished,
Joys are vanished,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
II.
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth, and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me:
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses;
Who so lived and loved as we!
III.
Never shall we curse the morning,
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, love supplying
All the joys he drained before.
Death, come end me,
To befriend me;
Love and Damon are no more.
A SONG.
I.
Sylvia, the fair, in the bloom of fifteen,
Felt an innocent warmth as she lay on the green;
She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest
By the towzing, and tumbling, and touching her breast.
She saw the men eager, but was at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
II.
Ah! she cried, ah, for a languishing maid,
In a country of Christians, to die without aid!
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least,
Or a Protestant parson, or Catholic priest,
To instruct a young virgin, that is at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close!
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
III.
Cupid, in shape of a swain, did appear,
He saw the sad wound, and in pity drew near;
Then showed her his arrow, and bid her not fear,
For the pain was no more than a maiden may bear.
When the balm was infused, she was not at a loss,
What they meant by their sighing, and kissing so close;
By their praying and whining,
And clasping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And sighing and kissing,
And sighing and kissing so close.
THE LADY'S SONG.
_The obvious application of this song is to the banishment of King
James, and his beautiful consort Mary of Este. _
I.
A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To chuse a May-lady to govern the year:
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen;
But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banished, and Love is no more;
The soft god of pleasure, that warmed our desires,
Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires,
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the deity swore:
But, if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep hooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan, and his son, and fair Syrinx, return.
A SONG.
I.
Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
II.
Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.
III.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
A SONG.
High state and honours to others impart,
But give me your heart;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
My soul does inspire;
That treasure, that treasure alone,
I beg for my own.
Your love let me crave;
Give me in possessing
So matchless a blessing;
That empire is all I would have.
Love's my petition,
All my ambition;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a lover,
So real a flame,
I'll die, I'll die,
So give up my game.
RONDELAY.
I.
Chloe found Amyntas lying,
All in tears, upon the plain,
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
II.
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
III.
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain. --
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain.
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain,
IV.
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain;
But, repenting, and complying,
When he kissed, she kissed again:
Kissed him up before his dying;
Kissed him up, and eased his pain.
A SONG.
I.
Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain:
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To souls oppressed, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief,
That music should in sounds convey,
What dying lovers dare not say.
II.
A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live.
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.
Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress;
But, ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.
A SONG
TO A
FAIR YOUNG LADY,
GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING.
I.
Ask not the cause, why sullen spring
So long delays her flowers to bear?
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year?
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it spring where she resides.
II.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye;
But left her lover in despair,
To sigh, to languish, and to die.
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure,
To give the wounds they will not cure!
III.
Great god of love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst placed such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
IV.
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recal.
I only am, by love, designed
To be the victim for mankind.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST,
OR
THE POWER OF MUSIC;
AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST CECILIA'S DAY.
_This celebrated Ode was written for the Saint's Festival in 1697,
when the following stewards officiated: Hugh Colvill, Esq. ; Capt.
Thomas Newman; Orlando Bridgeman, Esq. ; Theophilus Buller, Esq. ;
Leonard Wessell, Esq. ; Paris Slaughter, Esq. ; Jeremiah Clarke,
Gent. ; and Francis Rich, Gent. The merits of this unequalled
effusion of lyrical poetry, are fully discussed in the general
criticism. _
I.
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned. )
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
CHORUS.
_Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair. _
II.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love. )
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then, round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
