No More Learning

Mr John died
in his post at Rome, and Harry the youngest was a religious; he had
30l. a year allowed by his college in Flanders, besides a generous
salary from his near relation the too well-known Duchess of Norfolk,
to whom he was domestic chaplain. Behold the great wants of this
deplorable family!

I am, Sir,

Your’s, &c.

CORINNA.

_May_ 15, 1729.

P. S. ‘Mr Dryden was educated at Westminster school, under the great Dr
Bushby, being one of the king’s scholars upon the royal foundation. ’

* * * * *

’SIR,

’Upon recollection, I think it must have been that remarkably fine
gentleman, Pope Clement XI. , to whom Mr Charles Dryden was usher of the
palace. His brother John died of a fever at Rome, not many months after
his father, and was buried there; whether before the pope or after
I cannot say; but the difference was not much. Mr Charles, who was
drowned at Windsor, 1704, was doubtless buried there. Lady Elizabeth
lived about eight years after her spouse, and for five years of the
time, without any memory, which she lost by a fever in 1703; she was a
melancholy object, and was, by her son Harry, as I was told, carried
into the country, where she died. What country I never heard. I cannot
certainly say where Mr Harry died, or whether before his mother or
after.

’Mr Dryden never had any wife but Lady Elizabeth, whatever may have
been reported.

’As he was a man of a versatile genius, he took great delight in
judicial astrology; though only by himself. There were some incidents
which proved his great skill, that were related to Lady Chudleigh at
the Bath, and which she desired me to ask Lady Elizabeth about, as I
after did; which she not only confirmed, by telling me the exact matter
of fact, but added another, which had never been told to any; and which
I can solemnly aver was some years before it came to pass. I purposely
omitted these Narratives in the Memoirs of Mr Dryden, lest that this
over-witty age, which so much ridicules prescience, should think the
worse of all the rest; but, if you desire particulars, they shall be
freely at your service.

I am, Sir,

Your’s, &c.

CORINNA.

_16th June_, 1729.

* * * * *

_The Narratives referred to in the foregoing Letter, viz. _

’Notwithstanding Mr Dryden was a great master of that branch of
astronomy, called judicial astrology, there were very few, scarce any,
the most intimate of his friends, who knew of his amusements that way,
except his own family. In the year 1707, that deservedly celebrated
Lady Chudleigh being at the Bath, was told by the Lady Elizabeth of a
very surprising instance of this judgement on his eldest son Charles’s
horoscope. Lady Chudleigh, whose superior genius rendered her as
little credulous on the topic of prescience, as she was on that of
apparitions; yet withal was of so candid and curious a disposition,
that she neither credited an attested tale on the quality or character
of the relater, nor did she altogether despise it, though told by the
most ignorant: Her steady zeal for truth always led her to search
to the foundation, of it; and on that principle, at her return to
London, she spoke to a gentlewoman of her acquaintance, that was well
acquainted in Mr Dryden’s family, to ask his widow about it; which she
accordingly did. It is true, report has added many incidents to matter
of fact; but the real truth, taken from Lady Elizabeth’s own mouth, is
in these words:

‘When I was in labour of Charles, Mr Dryden being told it was decent
to withdraw, laid his watch on the table, begging one of the ladies,
then present, in a most solemn manner, to take an exact notice of the
very minute when the child was born: which she did, and acquainted
him therewith. This passed without any singular notice; many fathers
having had such a fancy, without any farther thought. But about a week
after, when I was pretty hearty, he comes into my room; ‘My dear,’
says he, ‘you little think what I have been doing this morning;’ “nor
ever shall,” said I, “unless you will be so good to inform me. ” ‘Why,
then,’ cried he, ‘I have been calculating this child’s nativity, and
in grief I speak it, he was born in an evil hour; Jupiter, Venus,
and the Sun, were all under the earth, and the lord of his ascendant
afflicted by a hateful square of Mars and Saturn. If he lives to arrive
at his eighth year, he will go near to die a violent death on his very
birth-day; but if he should escape, as I see but small hopes, he will,
in his twenty-third year, be under the very same evil direction: and
if he should, which seems almost impossible, escape that also, the
thirty-third or thirty-fourth year is, I fear’----I interrupted him
here, “O, Mr Dryden, what is this you tell me? my blood runs cold at
your fatal speech; recal it, I beseech you. Shall my little angel, my
Dryden boy, be doomed to so hard a fate? Poor innocent, what hast thou
done? No: I will fold thee in my arms, and if thou must fall, we will
both perish together. ” A flood of tears put a stop to my speech; and
through Mr Dryden’s comfortable persuasions, and the distance of time,
I began to be a little appeased, but always kept the fatal period in
my mind. At last the summer arrived, August was the inauspicious month
in which my dear son was to enter on his eighth year. The court being
in progress, and Mr Dryden at leisure, he was invited to my brother
Berkshire’s to keep the long vacation with him at Charleton in Wilts;
I was also invited to my uncle Mordaunt’s, to pass the remainder of
the summer at his country-seat. All this was well enough; but when we
came to dividing the children, I would have had him took John, and let
me have the care of Charles; because, as I told him, a man might be
engaged in company, but a woman could have no pretence for not guarding
of the evil hour. Poor Mr Dryden was in this too absolute, and I as
positive. In fine, we parted in anger; and, as a husband always will
be master, he took Charles, and I was forced to be content with my son
John. But when the fatal day approached, such anguish of heart seized
me, as none but a fond mother can form any idea of. I watched the post;
that failed: I wrote and wrote, but no answer. Oh, my friend! judge
what I endured, terrified with dreams, tormented by my apprehensions. I
abandoned myself to despair, and remained inconsolable.

’The anxiety of my spirits occasioned such an effervescence of my
blood, as threw me into so violent a fever, that my life was despaired
of, when a letter came from my spouse, reproving my womanish credulity,
and assured me all was well, and the child in perfect health; on
which I mended daily, and recovered my wonted state of ease, till
about six weeks after the fatal day, I received an _eclaircissement_
from Mr Dryden, with a full account of the whole truth, which belike
he feared to acquaint me with till the danger was over. It was this:
In the month of August, being Charles’s anniversary, it happened, that
Lord Berkshire had made a general hunting-match, to which were invited
all the adjacent gentlemen; Mr Dryden being at his house, and his
brother-in-law, could not be dispensed with from appearing.

’I have told you, that Mr Dryden, either through fear of being
thought superstitious, or thinking it a science beneath his study,
was extremely cautious in letting any one know that he was a dabbler
in astrology, therefore could not excuse his absence from the sport;
but he took care to set the boy a double exercise in the Latin tongue,
(which he taught his children himself,) with a strict charge not to
stir out of the room till his return, well knowing the task he had
set him would take up longer time. Poor Charles was all obedience,
and sat close to his duty, when, as ill fate ordained, the stag made
towards the house. The noise of the dogs, horns, &c. alarmed the family
to partake of the sport; and one of the servants coming down stairs,
the door being open, saw the child hard at his exercise without being
moved. ‘Master,’ cried the fellow, ‘why do you sit there? come down,
come down, and see the sport. ’ ‘No,’ replied Charles, ’my papa has
forbid me, and I dare not. ’ ‘Pish! ’ quoth the clown, ‘vather shall
never know it;’ so takes the child by the hand, and leads him away;
when, just as they came to the gate, the stag, being at bay with the
dogs, cut a bold stroke, and leaped over the court-wall, which was
very low and very old, and the dogs following, threw down at once a
part of the wall ten yards in length, under which my dear child lay
buried. He was as soon as possible dug out; but, alas, how mangled! his
poor little head being crushed to a perfect mash. In this miserable
condition he continued above six weeks, without the least hope of life.
Through the Divine Providence he recovered, and in process of time,
having a most advantageous invitation to Rome, from my uncle, Cardinal
Howard, we sent over our two sons Charles and John; (having, through
the grace of God, been ourselves admitted into the true Catholic
faith;) they were received suitable to the grandeur and generosity of
his eminence, and Charles immediately planted in a post of honour,
as gentleman-usher to his Holiness, in which he continued about nine
years. But what occasions me to mention this, is an allusion to my
dear Mr Dryden’s too fatal prediction. In his twenty-third year,
being in perfect health, he had attended some ladies of the palace,
his Holiness’s nieces, as it was his place, on a party of pleasure.
His brother John and he lodged together, at the top of an old round
tower belonging to the Vatican, (with a well staircase, much like the
Monument,) when he knew his brother Charles was returned, went up,
thinking to find him there, and to go to bed. But, alas! no brother
was there: on which he made a strict enquiry at all the places he used
to frequent, but no news, more than that he was seen by the centinel
to go up the staircase. On which he got an order for the door of
the foundation of the tower to be opened, where they found my poor
unfortunate son Charles mashed to a mummy, and weltering in his own
blood. How this happened, he gave no farther account, when he could
speak, than, that the heat of the day had been most excessive, and
as he came to the top of the tower, he found himself seized with a
megrim, or swimming in his head, and leaning against the iron rails, it
is to be supposed, tipped over, five stories deep. Under this grievous
mischance, his Holiness (God bless him! ) omitted nothing that might
conduce to his recovery; but as he lay many months without hopes of
life, so when he did recover his health, it was always very imperfect,
and he continues still to be of a hectic disposition.

’You see here (continued Lady Elizabeth) the too true fulfilling of two
of my dear husband’s fatal predictions. But, alas! my friend, there is
a third to come, which is, that in his thirty-third or thirty-fourth
year, he or I shall die a violent death; but he could not say which
would go first. I heartily pray it may be myself: But as I have ten
thousand fears, the daily challenges Charles sends to Lord Jefferies,
on his ungenerous treatment of my dear Mr Dryden’s corpse; and as
he has some value for you, I beg, my dearest friend, that you would
dissuade him as much as you can from taking that sort of justice on
Lord Jefferies, lest it should fulfil his dear father’s prediction. ’

* * * * *

“Thus far Lady Elizabeth’s own words.

“This, if required, I can solemnly attest was long before Mr Charles
died; to the best of my remembrance it was in 1701 or 1702, I will
not be positive which. But in 1703, Lady Elizabeth was seized with a
nervous fever, which deprived her of her memory and understanding,
(which surely may be termed a moral death,) though she lived some
years after. But Mr Charles, in August 1704, was unhappily drowned at
Windsor, as before recited. He had, with another gentleman, swam twice
over the Thames; but venturing a third time, it was supposed he was
taken with the cramp, because he called out for help, though too late.

I am, Sir, &c.

CORINNA. ”

_June_ 18, 1729.


_Mr_ CHARLES DRYDEN’S _Letter to_ CORINNA.

’_Madam_,

’Notwithstanding I have been seized with a fever ever since I saw you
last, I have this afternoon endeavoured to do myself the honour of
obeying my Lady Chudleigh’s commands. My fever is still increasing, and
I beg you to peruse the following verses, according to your own sense
and discretion, which far surpasses mine in all respects. In a small
time of intermission from my illness, I write these following:

MADAM,

How happy is our British isle, to bear
Such crops of wit and beauty to the fair?
A female muse each vying age has blest,
And the last Phoenix still excels the rest:
But you such solid learning add to rhymes,
Your sense looks fatal to succeeding times;
Which, raised to such a pitch, o’erflows like Nile,
And with an after-dearth must seize our isle.
Alone of all your sex, without the rules
Of formal pedants, or the noisy schools,
(What nature has bestowed will art supply? )
Have traced the various tracts of dark philosophy.

What happy days had wise Aurelius seen,
If, for Faustina, you his wife had been!
No jarring nonsense had his soul oppressed,
For he with all he wished for had been blessed.

’Be pleased to tell me what you find amiss, or correct it yourself, and
excuse this trouble from

Your most humble and most obedient servant,

CHAR. DRYDEN. ’

_Easter-Eve. _

“I have searched all our ecclesiastical offices for the will of Mr
Dryden, but I find he did not make any; administration was granted to
his son Charles (his wife, the Lady Elizabeth Howard, being a lunatic
for some time before her death) in June 1700. ”




No. VI.

MONUMENT IN THE CHURCH AT TICHMARSH.


“In the middle of the north wall of the chapel within the parish church
of Tichmarsh, in Northamptonshire, is a wooden monument, having the
bust of a person at top, wreathed, crowned with laurel. Underneath, THE
POET; and below, this inscription:

“Here lie the honoured remains
of Erasmus Dryden, Esq. , and Mary Pickering
his wife.
He was the third son of Sir Erasmus Dryden, an
ancient Baronet, who lived with great honour in
this county, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Mr Dryden was a very ingenious worthy gentleman,
and Justice of the Peace in this county.
He married Mrs Mary Pickering, daughter of the
reverend Doc^r Pickering,[211] of Aldwinckle, and
grand-daughter to Sir Gilbert Pickering:
Of her it may truly be said,
She was a crown to her husband:
Her whole conversation was as becometh
the Gospel of Christ.
They had 14 children; the eldest of whom was
John Dryden, Esq. ,
the celebrated Poet and Laureat of his time.
His bright parts and learning are best seen in his
own excellent writings on various subjects.
We boast, that he was bred and had
his first learning here;
where he has often made us happie
by his kind visits and most delightful conversation.
He married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter to
Henry[212] Earl of Berkshire; by whom he had three
sons, Charles, John, and Erasmus-Henry;
and, after 70 odd years, when nature could be no
longer supported, he received the notice of
his approaching dissolution
with sweet submission and entire resignation
to the Divine will;
and he took so tender and obliging a farewell of
his friends, as none but he himself could have
expressed; of which sorrowful number
I was one.
His body was honourably interred in Westminster
Abby, among the greatest wits of divers ages.
His sons were all fine, ingenious, accomplished
gentlemen: they died in their youth, unmarried:
Sir Erasmus-Henry, the youngest, lived
till the ancient honour of the family
descended on him.
After his death, it came to his good uncle,
Sir Erasmus Dryden;
whose grandson is the present Sir John Dryden,
of Canons-Ashby, the ancient seat of the Family.
Sir Erasmus Dryden, the first named, married his
daughters into very honourable familyes; the
eldest to Sir John Philipps;[213] the second to
Sir John Hartop;[214] the youngest[215] was married
to Sir John Pickering, great grand-father to
the present Sir Gilbert Pickering, Bart. ;
and to the same persons I have the honour to be
a grand-daughter:
And it is with delight and humble thankfullness
that I reflect on the character of
my pious ancestors; and that I am
now, with my owne hand, paying my duty to
Sir Erasmus Dryden,
my great grand-father, and to
Erasmus Dryden, Esq. ,
my honoured uncle,[216] in the 80th year of my age.

ELIZA. CREED, 1722. ”




No. VII.

EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTOLARY POEM, TO JOHN DRYDEN, ESQ.

OCCASIONED BY THE MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. JAMES EARL OF
ABINGDON;

BY WILLIAM PITTIS, LATE FELLOW OF NEW-COLLEGE, IN OXON.


_Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi lœdere versu
Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanumq. Nepotem? _ HOR.

_----Cadet et Repheus justissimus unus
Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus æqui. _ ÆN. Lib. ii.


THE PREFACE.

_1699. 13. June. _

. . . And though I am not an author confirmed enough to carry my copies
about to gentlemen’s chambers, in order to pick up amendments and
corrections, as the practice is now of our most received writers; yet
I must, in justice to myself, and the gentleman who has favoured me
with its perusal, tell the world, it had been much worse had not Mr
Dryden acquainted me with its faults. Nothing indeed was so displeasing
to him, as what was pleasing to myself, viz. his own commendations:
and if it pleases the world, the reader has no one to thank but so
distinguishing a judgment who occasioned it.

I might here lay hold of the opportunity of returning the obliging
compliments he sent me by the person who brought the papers to him
before they were printed; but I may chance to call his judgement in
question by it, which I always accounted infallible, but in his kind
thoughts of me; and therefore refer the reader to the poem, in order to
see whether he’ll be so good natured as to join his opinion with the
compliment the gentleman aforesaid has honoured me with.


POEM.

But thou, great bard, whose hoary merits claim
The laureat’s place, without the laureat’s name;
Whose learned brows, encircled by the bays,
Bespeak their owner’s, and their giver’s praise;
Thou, Dryden, should’st our loss alone relate,
And heroes mourn, who heroes canst create.
Amidst thy verse the wife already shines,
And owes her virtues, what she owes thy lines.
Down from above the saint our sorrows views,
And feels a second heaven in thy muse;
Whose verse as lasting as her fame shall be,
While thou shall live by her, and she by thee.
Oh! let the same immortal numbers tell,
How just the husband lived, and how he fell;
What vows, when living, for his life were made;
What floods of tears at his decease were paid;
And since their deathless virtues were the same,
Equal in worth, alike should be their fame.
But thou, withdrawn from us, and public cares,
Flatter’st thy age, and feed’st thy growing years;
Supine, unmoved, regardless of our cries,
Thou mind’st not where thy noble patron lies:
Wrapt in death’s icy arms, within his urn,
Behold him sleeping, and, beholding, mourn:
Speechless that tongue for wholesome counsels famed,
And without sight those eyes for lust unblamed;
Bereaved of motion are those hands which gave
Alms to the needy, did the needy crave.
Ah! such a sight, and such a man divine,
Does only call for such a hand as thine!
Great is the task, and worthy is thy pen;
The best of bards should sing the best of men.
Awake, arise from thy lethargic state,
Mourn Britain’s loss, though Britain be ingrate;
Nor let the sacred Mantuan’s labours be
A _ne plus ultra_ to thy fame and thee.
Thy Abingdon, if once thy glorious theme,
Shall vie with his Marcellus for esteem;
Tears in his eyes, and sorrow in his heart,
Shall speak the reader’s grief, and writer’s art;
And, though this barren age does not produce
A great Augustus, to reward thy muse;
Though in this isle no good Octavia reigns,
And gives thee Virgil’s premium for his strains:
Yet, Dryden, for a while forsake thy ease,
And quit thy pleasures, that thou more may’st please.
Apollo calls, and every muse attends,
With every grace, who every beauty lends.
Sweet is thy voice, as was thy subject’s mind,
And, like his soul, thy numbers unconfined;
Thy language easy, and thy flowing song,
Soft as a vale, but like a mountain strong.
Such verse as thine, and such alone, should dare
To charge the muses with their present care.
Thine, and the cause of wit, with speed maintain,
Lest some rude hand the sacred work profane,
And the dull, mercenary, rhyming crew,
Rob the deceased and thee, of what’s your due.
Such fears as these, (if duty cannot move,
And make thy labours equal to thy love,)
Should hasten forth thy verse, and make it show
What thou, mankind, and every muse does owe.
As Abingdon’s high worth exalted shines,
And gives and takes a lustre from thy lines;
As Eleonora’s pious deeds revive
In him who shared her praises when alive:
So the stern Greek, whom nothing could persuade
To quit the rash engagements which he made,
With sullen looks, and helmet laid aside,
He soothed his anger, and indulged his pride;
Careless of fate, neglectful of the call
Of chiefs entreating, till Patroclus’ fall.
Roused by his death, his martial soul could bend,
And lose his whole resentments in his friend;
As to the dusky field he winged his course,
With eyes impatient, and redoubled force,
And weeped him dead, in thousands of the slain,
Whom living, Greece had beg’d his sword in vain.
O Dryden! quick the sacred pencil take,
And rise in virtue’s cause for virtue’s sake;
Of heaven’s the song, and heaven-born is thy muse,
Fitting to follow bliss, which mine will lose:
Bold are thy thoughts, and soaring is thy flight;
Thy fancy tempting, thy expressions bright;
Moving thy grief, and powerful is thy praise,
Or to command our tears, or joys to raise.
So shall his worth, from age to age conveyed,
Shew what the hero did, and poet paid;
And future times shall practice what they see
Performed so well by him, and praised by thee,
While I confess the weakness of my lays,
And give my wonder where thou giv’st thy praise:
As I from every muse but thine retire,
And him in thee, and thee in him, admire.




No. VIII.

EXTRACTS FROM POEMS ATTACKING DRYDEN, FOR HIS SILENCE UPON THE DEATH OF
QUEEN MARY.


The author of one of these Mourning Odes inscribes it to Dryden with
the following letter:

SIR,

Though I have little acquaintance with you, nor desire to have more, I
take upon me, with the assurance of a poet, to make this dedication to
you, which I hope you will the more easily excuse, since you have often
used the same freedom to others; and since I protest sincerely, that I
expect no money from you.

I could not forbear mentioning your admired Lewis, whom you compare to
Augustus, as justly as one may compare you to Virgil. Augustus (though
not the most exact pattern of a prince) yet, on some occasions, shewed
personal valour, and was not a league-breaker, a poisoner, a pirate:
Virgil was a good man and a clean poet; all his excellent writings may
be carried by a child in one hand more easily, than all your almonzors
can be by a porter upon both shoulders.

When I saw your prodigious epistle to the translation of Juvenal, I
feared you were wheeling to the government; I confess too, I long
expected something from you on the late sad occasion, that has employed
so many pens; but it is well that you have kept silence. I hope you
will always be on the other side; did even popery ever get any honour
by you? You may wonder that I subscribe not my name at length, but
I defer that to another time. I hear you are translating again; let
English Virgil be better than English Juvenal, or it is odds you will
hear of me more at large. In the mean time, hoping that you and your
covey will dislike what I _have written_, I remain, Sir, your very
humble servant,

A. B.

There is also an attack upon our author, as presiding in the Wits
Coffee-house, which gives us a curious view into the interior of that
celebrated place of rendezvous. It is entitled, “Urania’s Temple; or, a
Satire upon the Silent Poets,” and is as follows:--




URANIA’S TEMPLE; OR, A SATIRE UPON THE SILENT POETS.

_Carmina, nulla canam. _----VIRG.

_1694-5. 2. March. _

A house there stands where once a convent stood,
A nursery still to the old convent brood:
This ever hospitable roof of yore
The famous sign of the old Osiris bore,
A fair red Io, hieroglyphic-fair,
For all the suckling wits o’ the town milcht there.
This long old emblematic, that had past
Full many a bleak winter’s shaking blast,
At last with age fell down, some say, confusion,
Shamed and quite dasht at the new Revolution;
Dropt out of modesty, (as most suppose,)
Not daring face the new bright Royal Rose.
Here in supiner state, ’twixt reaking tiff,
And fumigating clouds of funk and whiff,
Snug in a nook, his dusky tripos, sits
A senior Delphic ’mongst the minor wits;
Feared like an Indian god, a god indeed
True Indian, smoked with his own native weed.
From this oped mouth, soft eloquence rich mint
Steals now and then a keen well-hammered hint,
Some sharp state raillery, or politic squint,
Hard midwived wit, births by slow labours stopt,
Sense not profusely shower’d, but only dropt.
Sometimes for oracles yet more profound,
A titillating sonnet’s handed round,
Some Abdication-Damon madrigal,
His own sour pen’s too overflowing gall.
I must confess in pure poetic rage,
Bowed down to the old Moloch of that age,
His strange bigotted muse our wonder saw,
Tuned to the late great court tarantula.
What though worn out in pleasures old and stale,
The reverend Outly sculkt within the pale;
It was enough, like the old Mahomet’s pigeon,
He lured to bread, and masked into religion.
Had that, now silent, muse been but so kind
As to this funeral-dirge her numbers joined,
On that great theme what wonders had he told!
For though the bard, the quill is not grown old,
Writes young Apollo still, with his whole rays
Encircled and enriched, though not his bays.
Thus when the wreath, so long, so justly due,
The great Mecænas from those brows withdrew,
With pain he saw such merit sunk so far,
Shamed that the dragon’s tail swept down the star.
Not that the conscience-shackle tied so hard,
But had he been the prophet, as the bard,
Prognostick’d the diminutive slender birth
His seven-hill’d mountain-labour has brought forth,
His foreseen precipice; that thought alone
Had stopt his fall, secured him all our own;
Free from his hypochondriac dreams he had slept,
And still his unsold Esau’s birthright kept.
’Tis thus we see him lost, thus mourn his fall;
That single teint alone has sullied all.
So have I in the Muses garden seen
The spreading rose, or blooming jessamine;
Once from whose bosom the whole Hybla train
The industrious treasurers of the rich plain,
Those winged foragers for their fragrant prey,
On loaded thighs bore thousand sweets away:
Now shaded by a sullen venomed guest
Cankered and sooted o’er to a spider’s nest.
His sweets thus soured, what melancholy change,
What an ill-natur’d lour, a face so strange!
His life one whole long scene of all unrest,
And airy hopes his thin cameleon-feast;
Pleased only with the pride of being preferred,
The echoed voice to his own listning herd,
A magisterial Belweather tape,
The lordly leader of his bleating troop.
These doctrines our young Sullenists preach round,
The texts which their poetic silence found.
But why the doctor of their chair, why thou,
Their great rabbinic voice, thus silent too?
Could Noll’s once meteor glories blaze so fair,
To make thee that all-prostrate zealot there?
Strange, that that fiery nose could boast that charm
Thy muse with those seraphic raptures warm!
And our fair Albion star to shine so bleak,
Her radiant influence so chill, so weak!
Gorged with his riotous festival of fame,
Could thy weak stomach pule at Mary’s name!
Or was thy junior palate more canine,
And now in years grows squeamish, and more fine!
Fie, peevish-niggard, with thy flowing store
To play the churl,--excuse thy shame no more.




No. IX.

VERSES OCCASIONED BY READING MR DRYDEN’S FABLES. INSCRIBED TO HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

BY MR JABEZ HUGHES.


_Musæum ante omnes, medium nam plurima turba
Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit altis. _--VIRG.

TO THE READER.

_1720-1, March. _

It is now almost fourteen years since these lines were first written;
and as I had no thought of making them public, I laid them aside among
other papers; where they had still continued private, if it had not, in
a manner, become my duty to print them, by the noble regard which is
paid to Mr Dryden’s memory, by his grace the Duke of Buckingham, who,
to his high quality, has added the liberal distinction of having long
been at once both an eminent patron of elegant literature, and the most
accomplished judge and pattern of it.

It might indeed seem an adventurous presumption to offer so trivial
a poem to his Grace’s view; but he who is able to instruct the
most skilful writer, will have benevolence enough to forgive the
imperfections of the weakest, and to consider the inscribing these
slight verses to his Grace, merely as a respectful acknowledgment of
the common obligation he has laid upon all who have a true value for
English poetry, by thus honouring the remains of a man who advanced it
so highly, and is so justly celebrated for beauty of imagination, and
force and delicacy of expression and numbers.

I must also observe, that I have had the happiness to see one part of
these verses abundantly disproved by Mr Pope, and accordingly I retract
it with pleasure; for that admirable author, who evidently inherits the
bright invention, and the harmonious versification of Mr Dryden, has
increased the reputation his other ingenious writings had obtained him,
by the permanent fame of having finished a translation of the Iliad of
Homer, with surprising genius and merit.


UPON READING MR DRYDEN’S FABLES.

Our great forefathers, in poetic song,
Were rude in diction, though their sense was strong;
Well-measured verse they knew not how to frame,
Their words ungraceful, and the cadence lame.
Too far they wildly ranged to start the prey,
And did too much of Fairy-land display;
And in their rugged dissonance of lines,
True manly thought debased with trifles shines.
Each gaudy flower that wantons on the mead,
Must not appear within the curious bed;
But nature’s chosen birth should flourish there,
And with their beauties crown the sweet parterre.
Such was the scene, when Dryden came to found
More perfect lays, with harmony of sound:
What lively colours glow on every draught!
How bright his images, how raised his thought!
The parts proportioned to their proper place,
With strength supported, and adorned with grace.
With what perfection did his artful hand
The various kinds of poesy command!
And the whole choir of Muses at his call,
In his rich song, which was inspired of all,
Spoke from the chords of his enchanting lyre,
And gave his breast the fulness of their fire.
As while the sun displays his lordly light,
The host of stars are humbly veiled from sight,
Till when he falls, they kindle all on high,
And smartly sparkle in the nightly sky:
His fellow bards suspended thus their ray,
Drowned in the strong effulgence of his day;
But glowing to their rise, at his decline,
Each cast his beams, and each began to shine.
As years advance, the abated soul, in most,
Sinks to low ebb, in second childhood lost;
And spoiling age, dishonouring our kind,
Robs all the treasures of the wasted mind;
With hovering clouds obscures the muffled sight,
And dim suffusion of enduring night:
But the rich fervour of his rising rage,
Prevailed o’er all the infirmities of age;
And, unimpaired by injuries of time,
Enjoyed the bloom of a perpetual prime.
His fire not less, he more correctly writ,
With ripened judgment, and digested wit;
When the luxuriant ardour of his youth,
Succeeding years had tamed to better growth,
And seemed to break the body’s crust away,
To give the expanded mind more room to play;
Which, in its evening, opened on the sight,
Surprising beams of full meridian light;
As thrifty of its splendour it had been,
And all its lustre had reserved till then.
So the descending sun, which hid his ray
In mists before, diminishing the day,
Breaks radiant out upon the dazzled eye,
And in a blaze of glory leaves the sky.
Revolving time had injured Chaucer’s name,
And dimmed the brilliant lustre of his fame;
Deformed his language, and his wit depressed,
His serious sense oft sinking to a jest;
Almost a stranger even to British eyes,
We scarcely knew him in the rude disguise:
But, clothed by thee, the burnished bard appears
In all his glory, and new honours wears.
Thus Ennius was by Virgil changed of old;
He found him rubbish, and he left him gold.
Who but thyself could Homer’s weight sustain,
And match the voice of his majestic strain;
When Phœbus’ wrath the sovereign poet sings,
And the big passion of contending kings!
No tender pinions of a gentle muse,
Who little points in epigram pursues,
And, with a short excursion, meekly plays
Its fluttering wings in mean enervate lays,
Could make a flight like this; to reach the skies,
An eagle’s vigour can alone suffice.
In every part the courtly Ovid’s style,
Thy various versions beautifully foil.
Here smoothly turned melodious measures move,
And feed the flame, and multiply the love:
So sweet they flow, so touch the heaving heart,
They teach the doctor[217] in his boasted art.
But when the theme demands a manly tone,
Sublime he speaks in accents not his own.
The bristly boar, and the tremendous rage,
When the fell Centaurs in the fight engage;
The cruel storm where Ceyx lost his life,
And the deep sorrows of his widowed wife;
The covered cavern, and the still abode
Of empty visions, and the Sleepy God;
The powers of nature, in her wonderous reign,
Old forms subverting, to produce again,
And mould the mass anew, the important verse
Does with such dignity of words rehearse,
That Virgil, proud of unexampled fame,
Looks with concern, and fears a rival name.
What vaunting Grecians, of their knowledge vain,
In lying legends insolently feign
Of magic verses, whose persuasive charm
Appeased the soul with glowing passion warm;
Then discomposed the calm, and changed the scene,
And with the height of madness vexed again,--
Thou hast accomplished in thy wondrous song,[218]
With utmost energy of numbers strong.
A flow of rage comes hurrying on amain,
And now the refluent tide ebbs out again;
A quiet pause succeeds; when unconfined
It rushes back, and swells upon the mind.
The inimitable lay, through all the maze
Of harmony’s sweet labyrinth, displays
The power of music, and Cecilia’s praise.
At first it lifts the flattered monarch high,
With boasted lineage, to his kindred sky;
Then to the pleasures of the flowing bowl,
And mellow mirth, unbends his easy soul;
And humbles now, and saddens all the feast,
With sense of human miseries expressed;
Relenting pity in each face appears,
And heavy sorrow ripens into tears.
Grief is forbid; and see! in every eye
The gaiety of love, and wanton joy!
Soft smiles and airs, which tenderly inspire
Delightful hope, and languishing desire.
But lo! the pealing verse provokes around
The frown of rage, and kindles with the sound;
Behold the low’ring storm at once arise,
And ardent vengeance sparkling in their eyes;
Fury boils high, and zeal of fell debate,
Demanding ruin, and denouncing fate.
Ye British beauties, in whose finished face
Smile the gay honours of each bloomy grace;
Whose forms, inimitably fair, invite
The sighing heart, and cheer the ravished sight,
Say, what sweet transports, and complacent joy,
Rise in your bosoms, and your soul employ,
When royal Emily, the tuneful bard
Paints in his song, and makes the rich reward
Of knightly arms, in costly lists arrayed,
The world at once contending for the maid.
How nobly great does Sigismonda shine,
With constant faith, and courage masculine!
No menaces could bend her mind to fear,
But for her love she dies without a tear.
There Iphigenia, with her radiant eyes,
As the bright sun, illuminates the skies;
In clouded Cymon chearful day began,
Awaked the sleeping soul, and charmed him into man.
The pleasing legends, to your honour, prove
The power of beauty, and the force of love.
Who, after him, can equally rehearse
Such various subjects, in such various verse?
And with the raptures of his strain controul,
At will, each passion, and command the soul?
Not ancient Orpheus, whose surprising lyre
Did beasts, and rocks, and rooted woods, inspire,
More sweetly sung, nor with superior art
Soothed the sad shades, and softened Pluto’s heart.
All owned, at distance, his distinguished name,
Nor vainly vied to share his awful fame;
Unrivalled, living, he enlarged his praise,
And, dying, left without an heir his bays.
So Philip’s son his universal reign
Extended amply over earth and main;
Through conquered climes with ready triumph rode,
And ruled the nations with his powerful nod;
But when fate called the mighty chief away,
None could succeed to his imperial sway,
And his wide empire languished to decay.




No. IX.

AN ODE BY WAY OF ELEGY, ON THE UNIVERSALLY LAMENTED DEATH OF THE
INCOMPARABLE MR DRYDEN.


_Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam chari capitis? Precipe lugubres
Cantus Melpomene----
Quando ullam inveniam parem!
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit. _

HORAT. Lib. i. Ode 25.

By ALEXANDER OLDYS.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR JAMES DIXON.

SIR,

_1700, 22d June. _

The many and great obligations which you have been pleased to lay
on me, give me the greatest confusion imaginable at present, when I
consider that I am suing for a greater favour than all, in having the
liberty to prefix your name to these lines; which though I am sensible
they will be condemned by the great, yet the shame of that can no way
affect you, when I do you the justice to assure the town, that it is
contrary to your knowledge that you are become my patron: so your
nicer sense cannot be accountable in the least; for you had no hand in
it, and you may plead

_----Quæ non fecimus ipsi
Vix ea nostra voco. _

Nay, you were not guilty of so much as of the knowledge of this my
_wicked intentions_; wicked. I mean, if it should offend you and my
other friends, who need not blush for me, since I have already such
a terror upon my conscience for this aggression, as is, I think, a
punishment in some measure equal to any crime; and all that I can urge
in my defence is, that it was pure respect to the dear memory of this
great man, to whom I had the honour to be known, that provoked, or, let
me rather say, obliged me to expose myself on this occasion. I never
attempted any thing in this measure for the public before; and I doubt
not that I shall do yet severer penance for it, in the censures of our
_awful wits_, which I already fear; but your judgment is still more
dreadful than all, by

Worthy Sir,

Your most obliged

obedient and humble servant,

ALEXANDER OLDYS.


AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR DRYDEN.


I.

On a soft bank of camomel I sate,
O’ershaded by two mournful yews;
(Doubtless it was the will of fate
I this retreat should chuse. )
Where on delicious poetry I fed,
Amazing thoughts chilled all my blood,
And almost stopt the vital flood,
As Dryden’s sacred verse I read.
Whilst killing raptures seized my head,
I shook, as if I had foreknown
What all-commanding fate had done;
What for our sovereign Dryden had designed,
Till sleep o’erwhelmed my brain, as sorrow had my mind;
To think that all the great, even he, must die,
And here, in fame alone, have immortality.
When in my dream the fatal muse,
With hair dishevell’d, and in tears,
Melpomene appears;
Upon my throbbing heart her hand she laid,
Her hand as cold as death, and thus she said,--
“Least of my care, be calmed! No more just heaven accuse!


II.

“Eternal fate has said,--He must remove;
The bards triumphant wait for him above.
To everlasting day and blest abodes
(The seats of poets and of gods)
He’s gone, to fill the throne
Which none could fill but he alone;
The glorious throne for him prepared;
Of glorious acts the glorious, just reward.
See, see, as he ascends on high,
The sacred bards attending in the sky!
So low do they descend
To meet their now immortal friend!
Immortal there above, and here below,
As long as men shall wit and English know,
The unequalled Dryden must be so,
Immortal in his verse, in verse unequalled too. ”--
She said,--then disappear’d; when I
Could plainly see all that was done on high.


III.

I saw above an universal joy,
Perfect without alloy;
(So great as ne’er till then had been
Since the sweet Waller entered in,)
When all that sacred company
Brought the triumphant bard from ours to heaven’s great jubilee;
That was the occasion of his happiness,
And of our sorrows, surely that the cause,
Called hence heaven’s monarch’s praise to help to express,
And to receive for that his own deserved applause.
There wanted still one in the heavenly quire,
Dryden alone was their desire,
Whom for the sacred song th’ Almighty did inspire
’Twas pity to us that so long delayed
His blest translation to eternal light;
Or, otherwise may we not be afraid,
’Twas for the sins of some who durst presume to write;
Who durst in verse, in sacred poetry,
Even heaven’s own design bely,
And damn themselves with utmost industry!
For this may we not dread
The mighty prophet’s taken from our head?
And though the fate of these I fear,
I in respect must venture here.
A long and racking war was sent,
Of common sins, a common punishment;
To the unthinking crowd the only curse,
Who feel no loss but in their purse:
But ah! what loss can now be worse?
The mighty Pan has left our mournful shore;
The mighty Pan is gone, Dryden is here no more.


IV.

When to the blest bright region he was come,
The vulgar angels gazed, and made him room:
Each laureat monarch welcomes him on high,
And to embrace him altogether fly:
Then strait the happy guest is shown
To his bright and lofty throne,
Inferior there to none.
A crown beset with little suns, whose rays
Shoot forth in foliages resembling bays,
Now on his head they place:
Then round him all the sacred band
Loudly congratulating stand:
When after silence made,
Thus the sweetest Waller said:--
“Well hast thou merited, triumphant bard!
For, once I knew thee militant below,
When I myself was so;
Dangerous thy post, the combat fierce and hard,
Ignorance and rebellion still thy foe;
But for those little pains see now the great reward!
Mack-Flecknoe and Achitophel
Can now no more disturb thy peace,
Thy labours past, thy endless joys increase;
The more thou hast endured, the more thou dost excel;
And for the laurels snatched from thee below,
Thou wear’st an everlasting crown upon thy hallowed brow. ”


V.

The bard, who next the new-born saint addrest,
Was Milton, for his wonderous poem blest;
Who strangely found, in his Lost Paradise, rest.
“Great bard,” said he, “’twas verse alone
Did for my hideous crime atone,
Defending once the worst rebellion.
A double share of bliss belongs to thee,
For thy rich verse and thy firm loyalty;
Some of my harsh and uncouth points do owe
To thee a tuneful cadence still below.
Thine was indeed the state of innocence,
Mine of offence,
With studied treason and self-interest stained,
Till Paradise Lost wrought Paradise Regained. ”
He said:--when thus our English Abraham,
(In heaven the second of that name,
Cowley, as glorious there as sacred here in fame,)
“Welcome, Aleides, to this happy place!
Our wish, and our long expectation here,
Makes thee to us more dear;
Thou great destroyer of that monstrous race,
Which our sad former seat did harass and disgrace,
Be blest and welcomed with our praise!
Thy great Herculean labours done,
And all the courses of thy zodiac run,
Shine here to us, a more illustrious sun!
But see! thy brethren gods in poetry,
The whole great race divine,
Ready in thy applause to join,
Who will supply what is defect in me. ”


VI.

Rochester, once on earth a prodigy,
A happy convert now on high,
Here begins his wonderous lays,
In the sainted poet’s praise.
Fathomless Buckingham, smooth Orrery,
The witty D’Avenant, Denham, Suckling too,
Shakespeare, nature’s Kneller, who
Nature’s picture likest drew,
Each in their turn his praise pursue.
His song elaborate Jonson next does try,
On earth unused to eulogy;
Beaumont and Fletcher sing together still,
And with their tuneful notes the arched palace fill.
The noble patron poet now does try,
His wondrous Spenser to outvy.
Drayton did next our sacred bard address,
And sung above with wonderful success.
Our English Ennius, he who gave
To the great bard kind welcome to his grave,
Chaucer, the mightiest bard of yore,
Whose verse could mirth to saddest souls restore,
Caressed him next, whilst his delighted eye
Expressed his love, and thus his tongue his joy:--
“Was I, when erst below,” said he,
“In hopes so great a bard to see,
As thou, my son, adopted unto me,
And all this godlike race, some equal even to thee!
O! ’tis enough. ”--Here soft Orinda[219] came
And sprightly Afra,[220] muses both on earth,
Both burned here with a bright poetic flame,
Which to their happiness above gave birth;
Their charming songs his entertainment close,
The mighty bard then, smiling, bowed, and rose.


VII.

Strait from his head each takes his laurel’d crown,
And on the golden pavement casts it down:
All prostrate fall before heaven’s high imperial throne,
When the new saint begins his song alone;
Wond’rous even there it was confest,
Scarce to be equalled by the rest;
Herbert nor Crashaw, though on earth divine,
So sweetly could their numbers join!
When, lo! the light of twenty thousand suns,
All in one body, shining all at once,
Darts from the imperial to this lower court;
A light which they but hardly could support!
Then the great anthem was begun,
Which all the hallowed bards together sung;
And by no choir of angels is outdone,
But by the great seraphic choir alone,
That day and night surround the awful throne of heaven’s eternal King;
Even they themselves did the great chorus fill,
And brought the grateful sounds to heaven’s high holiest hill.


VIII.

My soul shook with the sacred harmony, which soon alarmed my heart;
I fancied I was falling from on high, and wakened with a start:
“Waked,” said I, “surely no; I did not sleep;
Can they be dreams which such impressions make?
My soul does still the blest ideas keep;
And still, methinks, I see them, though awake!
The other thrones too, which, though vacant, shone
With greater glory than the sun,
Come fresh into my mind;
Which once will lose their lustre by their bards outdone,
When filled with those for whom they are designed.
Upon their fronts I saw the glittering names,
All written in celestial flames.
For Dorset what a palace did I see!
For Montague! And what for Normandy!
What glories wait for Wycherly!
For Congreve, Southerne, Tate, Garth, Addison?
For Stephney, Prior, and for Dennis too?
What thrones are void, what joys prepared and due?
The pleasant dear companion Cheek,
Whom all the great although at midnight seek,
This glorious wreath must wear, and endless joys pursue.
And for Motteux, my Gallic friend,
The like triumphant laurels wait;
Though heaven, I hope, will send it very late,
Ere they or he to their blest seats ascend.
’Tis in their verse, next his, that he must live,
Next his their lines eternal fame can give;
Then all the happiness on earth I know
Is, that such godlike men as they are with us still below. ”




No. X.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR DRYDEN, A POEM.

_Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit,
Ut ad id unum natum diceres quodcunque ageret. _

_1700, 17th June. _

When mortals formed of common clay expire,
These vulgar souls an elegy require;
But some hero of more heavenly frame,
Exerts his valour, and extends his fame;
Below the spheres impatient to abide,
With universal joy is deified.
Thus our triumphant Bard from hence is fled.
But let us never, never say he’s dead;
Let poetasters make the Muses mourn,
And common-place it o’er his sacred urn;
The public voice exalts him to the sky,
And fate decrees him immortality;
Ordains, instead of tears or mournful hearse,
His apotheosis be sung in verse.
Great poets sure are formed of heavenly race,
And with great heroes justly claim a place.
As Cæsar’s pen did Cæsar best commend,
And all the elegies of Rome transcend;
So Dryden’s muse alone, like Phœbus bright,
Outshines all human praise, or borrowed light;
To form his image, and to make it true,
There must be art, and inspiration too.
Auspicious stars had doomed him to the trade,
By nature framed, by art a poet made:
Thus Maro’s words and sense in him we see,
And Ovid’s teeming vein of poesy.
In his vast miscellaneous works we find,
What charms at once, and edifies the mind:
His pregnant muse has in the offspring shown
What’s rare for use, or beauty to be known:
In monumental everlasting verse
Epitomised, he grasped the universe.
No power but his could tune a British lyre
To sweeter notes than any Tuscan quire,
Teutonic words to animate and raise,
Strong, shining, musical, as attic lays;
Rude matter indisposed he formed polite,
His muse seemed rather to create than write.
His nervous eloquence is brighter far
Than florid pulpit, or the noisy bar.
His periods shine harmonious in the close,
As if a muse presided in his prose;
Yet unaffected plain, but strong his style,
It overflows to fructify, like Nile.
The God of wit conspires with all the Nine,
To make the orator and poet join.
We’re charmed when he the lady or the friend,
Pleased in majestic numbers to commend.
The panegyric flows in streams profuse,
When worth or beauty sublimates the muse.
His notes are moving, powerful, and strong,
As Orpheus’ lyre, or as a Syren’s song;
Sweet as the happy Idumean fields,
And fragrant as the flowers that Tempe yields.
Thrice happy she to whom such tribute’s paid,
And has such incense at her altar laid;
A sacrifice that might with envy move
Jove’s consort, or the charming Queen of Love.
His lasting lines will give a sacred name,
(Eternal records in the book of fame,)
His favourites are doom’d by Jove’s decree,
To share with him in immortality.
The wealthy muse on innate mines could live,
Though no Mecenas any smile would give;
His light not borrowed, but was all his own;
His rays were bright and warm without the sun.
Pictures (weak images of him) are sold,
The French are proud to have the head for gold:
The echo of his verse has charmed their ear,--
O could they comprehend the sound they hear!
Who hug the cloud, caress an airy face,
What would they give the goddess to embrace?
The characters his steady muse could frame,
Are more than like, they are so much the same;
The pencil and the mirror faintly live,
’Tis but the shadow of a life they give;
Like resurrection from the silent grave,
He the numeric soul and body gave.
No art, no hand but his could e’er bring home
The noblest choicest flowers of Greece and Rome;
Transplant them with sublimest art and toil,
And make them flourish in a British soil.
Whatever ore he cast into his mould }
He did the dark philosophy unfold, }
And by a touch converted all to gold. }
With epic feet who ere can steady run,
May drive the fiery chariot of the sun,
Must neither soar too high, nor fall too low;
Must neither burn like fire, nor freeze like snow.
All ages mighty conquerors have known,
Who courage and their power in arms have shown:
Greece knew but one, and Rome the Mantuan swain,
Who durst engage in lofty epic strain;
Heroics here were lands unknown before,
Our great Columbus first descried the shore.
No prophet moved the passions of the mind,
With sovereign power and force so unconfined:
We sympathised with his poetic rage,
In lofty buskins when he ruled the stage;
He roused our love, our hope, despairs, and fears,
Dissolved in joy we were, or drowned in tears.
When juster indignation roused his hate,
Insipid rhymes to lash, or knaves of state;
Each line’s a sting, and ev’ry sting a death,
As if their fate depended on his breath.
Like sun-beams swift, his fiery shafts were sent,
Or lightning darted from the firmament.
No warmer clime, no age or muse divine,
In pointed satire could our bard outshine.
His unexhausted force knew no decay;
In spite of years, his muse grew young and gay,
And vigorous, like the patriarch of old,
His last-born Joseph cast in finest mould;
This son of sixty-nine, surpassing fair,
With any elder offspring may compare,
Has charms in courts of monarchs to be seen,
Caressed and cherished by a longing queen.
Great prophets oft extend their just command,
Receive the tribute of a foreign land;
When in their own ungrateful native ground
Few just admiring votaries they found.
But when these god-like men their clay resign,
Pale Envy’s laid a victim at their shrine;
United mortals do their worth proclaim,
And altars raise to their eternal fame.
Wealth, beauty, force of wit, without allay,
In Dryden’s heavenly muse profusely lay;
Which mighty charms did never yet combine,
In any single deity to shine,
But were dispensed, more thriftily, between
Jove’s wife, his daughter, and the Cyprian queen.
The nymphs recorded in his artful lays,
Produce the grateful homage of their praise;
Assisted in their vows by powers divine,
Offer their sacred incense at his shrine.
The spheres exalt their music, to commend
The poet’s master and the muse’s friend;
In concert form seraphic notes to sing,
Of numbers, and of harmony the king.
In this triumphant scene to act her part,
Nature’s attended by her hand-maid, Art:
Resounding Echo, with her mimic voice,
Concurs to make the universe rejoice.
Let ev’ry tongue and pen the poet sing,
Who mounts Parnassus top with lofty wing;
Whose splendid muse has crowns of laurel won,
That brave the shining beauties of the sun.
His lines (those sacred reliques of the mind)
Not by the laws of fate or war confined,
In spite of flames will everlasting prove,
Devouring rust of time, or angry Jove.




No. XI.

EXTRACT FROM POETÆ BRITANNICI.

A POEM, SATIRICAL AND PANEGYRICAL.


_1700. 9. January. _

L--gh aim’d to rise above great Dr---n’s height,
But lofty Dryden kept a steady flight.
Like Dædalus, he times with prudent care
His well-waxed wings, and waves in middle air.
Crowned with the sacred snow of reverend years,
Dryden above the ignobler crowd appears,
Raises his laurelled head, and, as he goes,
O’er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows.
The native spark, which first advanced his name,
By industry he kindled to a flame.
Then to a different coast his judgment flew,
He left the old world behind, and found a new.
On the strong columns of his lasting wit,
Instructive Dryden built, and peopled it.
In every page delight and profit shines;
Immortal sense flows in his mighty lines.
His images so strong and lively be,
I hear not words alone, but substance see,
The proper phrase of our exalted tongue
To such perfection from his numbers sprung;
His tropes continued, and his figures fine,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Adapted words and sweet expressions move
Our various passions, pity, rage, and love.
I weep to hear fond Antony complain
In Shakespeare’s fancy, but in Virgil’s strain.
Though for the comic, others we prefer,
Himself the judge; nor does his judgment err.