BOOK I.

THE

WORKS

OF

JOHN DRYDEN,

NOW FIRST COLLECTED

_IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES._

ILLUSTRATED

WITH NOTES,

HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY,

AND

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

BY

WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

* * * * *

VOL. XI.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET,

BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH.

1808.

CONTENTS

OF

VOLUME ELEVENTH.

PAGE.

EPISTLES.

Epistle I. To John Hoddeson, 3

II. To Sir Robert Howard, 5

III. To Dr Charleton, 12

IV. To the Lady Castlemain, 18

V. To Mr Lee, 22

VI. To the Earl of Roscommon, 26

VII. To the Duchess of York, 31

VIII. To Mr J. Northleigh, 35

IX. To Sir George Etherege, 38

X. To Mr Southerne, 47

XI. To Henry Higden, Esq. 52

XII. To Mr Congreve, 57

XIII. To Mr Granville, 63

XIV. To Mr Motteux, 67

XV. To Mr John Driden, 71

XVI. To Sir Godfrey Kneller, 84

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

Upon the Death of Lord Hastings, 94

To the Memory of Mr Oldham, 99

To the pious Memory of Mrs Anne Killigrew, 105

Upon the Death of the Viscount of Dundee, 115

Eleonora, a panegyrical Poem, to the Memory of

the Countess of Abingdon, 117

Dedication to the Earl of Abingdon, 121

On the Death of Amyntas, 139

On the Death of a very young Gentleman, 142

Upon young Mr Rogers of Gloucestershire, 144

On the Death of Mr Purcell, 145

Epitaph on the Lady Whitmore, 150

Mrs Margaret Paston, 151

the Monument of the Marquis of Winchester, 152

Sir Palmer Fairbones' tomb in Westminster Abbey, 155

The Monument of a fair Maiden Lady, 158

Inscription under Milton's Picture, 160

ODES, SONGS, AND LYRICAL PIECES.

The Fair Stranger, 163

A Song for St Cecilia's Day, 165

The Tears of Amynta, 171

A Song, 173

The Lady's Song, 175

A Song, 176

A Song, 177

Rondelay, 178

A Song, 180

A Song to a fair young Lady, 181

Alexander's Feast, or the power of Music, an Ode, 183

Veni Creator Spiritus, paraphrased, 190

FABLES.--TALES FROM CHAUCER.

Dedication to the Duke of Ormond, 195

Preface prefixed to the Fables, 205

Palamon and Arcite; or the Knight's Tale, 241

Dedication to the Duchess of Ormond, 245

The Cock and the Fox; or the Tale of the Nun's

Priest, 327

The Flower and the Leaf; or the Lady in the Arbour, 356

The Wife of Bath, her Tale, 377

The Character of a good Parson, 395

FABLES.--TRANSLATIONS FROM BOCCACE.

Sigismonda and Guiscardo, 403

Theodore and Honoria, 433

Cymon and Iphigenia, 452

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE THE FIRST,

TO HIS FRIEND

JOHN HODDESDON,

ON HIS

DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

These verses were rescued from oblivion by Mr Malone, having escaped the

notice of Dryden's former editors. I have disposed them among the

Epistles, that being the title which the author seems usually to have

given to those copies of verses, which he sent to his friends upon their

publications, and which, according to the custom of the time, were

prefixed to the works to which they related. They form the second of our

author's attempts at poetry hitherto discovered, the "Elegy upon Lord

Hastings" being the first. The lines are distinguished by the hard and

rugged versification, and strained conceit, which characterised English

poetry before the Restoration. The title of Hoddesdon's book is a

sufficiently odd one: "Sion and Parnassus, or Epigrams on several Texts

of the Old and New Testaments," 8vo, 1650. Dryden was then a student in

Trinity College, Cambridge, and about eighteen years old. The nature of

the volume which called forth his poetical approbation, may lead us to

suppose, that, at this time, he retained the puritanical principles in

which he was doubtless educated. The verses are subscribed, _J. Dryden

of Trin. C._

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

Thou hast inspired me with thy soul, and I,

Who ne'er before could ken of poetry,

Am grown so good proficient, I can lend

A line in commendation of my friend.

Yet 'tis but of the second hand; if ought

There be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought.

Good thief, who dar'st, Prometheus-like, aspire,

And fill thy poems with celestial fire;

Enlivened by these sparks divine, their rays

Add a bright lustre to thy crown of bays.

Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook,

So lofty and divine a course hast took,

As all admire, before the down begin

To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother chin;

And, making heaven thy aim, hast had the grace

To look the sun of righteousness i'the face.

What may we hope, if thou goest on thus fast?

Scriptures at first, enthusiams at last!

Thou hast commenced, betimes, a saint; go on,

Mingling diviner streams with Helicon,

That they who view what epigrams here be,

May learn to make like, in just praise of thee.--

Reader, I've done, nor longer will withhold

Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold,

Thou'lt know adulterate copper; which, like this,

Will only serve to be a foil to his.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

SIR ROBERT HOWARD,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT POEMS.

This epistle was prefixed to Sir Robert Howard's poems, printed for

Herringman, 12mo, 1660, and entered in the Stationers' books on 16th

April that year. It was probably written about the commencement of

Dryden's intimacy with the author, whose sister he afterwards married.

Sir Robert Howard, son to the Earl of Berkshire, a man of quality, a

wit, and a cavalier, was able to extend effectual patronage to a rising

author; and so willing to do it, that he is even said to have received

Dryden into his own house. These lines, therefore, make part of Dryden's

grateful acknowledgments, of which more may be found in the prefatory

letter to the "Annus Mirabilis," addressed to Sir Robert Howard.[1] The

friendship of the brother poets was afterwards suspended for some time,

in consequence of Sir Robert's strictures on the "Essay on Dramatic

Poetry," and Dryden's contemptuous refutation of his criticism. But

there is reason to believe, that this interval of coldness was of short

duration; and that, if the warmth of their original intimacy was never

renewed, they resumed the usual kindly intercourse of relations and

friends.

The epistle itself is earlier in date than the poem called "Astrea

Redux," which was probably not published till the summer of 1660 was

somewhat advanced. This copy of verses, therefore, is the first avowed

production of our author after the Restoration, and may rank, in place

and merit, with "Astrea Redux," the "Poem on the Coronation," and the

"Address to the Chancellor." There is the same anxiety to turn and point

every sentence, and the same tendency to extravagant and unnatural

conceit. Yet it is sometimes difficult to avoid admiring the strength of

the author's mind, even when employed in wresting ideas the wrong way.

It is remarkable, also, that Dryden ventures to praise the verses of his

patron, on account of that absence of extravagant metaphor, and that

sobriety of poetic composition, for which, to judge by his own immediate

practice, he ought rather to have censured them.

Those who may be induced to peruse the works of Sir Robert Howard, by

the high commendation here bestowed upon them, will have more reason to

praise the gratitude of our author, than the justice of his panegyric.

They are productions of a most freezing mediocrity.

[Footnote 1: "I am so many ways obliged to you, and so little able to

return your favours, that, like those who owe too much, I can only live

by getting farther into your debt. You have not only been careful of my

fortune, which was the effect of your nobleness, but you have been

solicitous of my reputation, which is that of your kindness."]

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

As there is music uninformed by art

In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,

The birds in unfrequented shades express,

Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;

So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,

Which shames composure,[2] and its art excells.

Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,

Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.[3]

Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmness does suppose them deep,

Such is your muse: no metaphor swelled high

With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:

Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,

Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.

So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,

Did never but in Sampson's riddle meet.

'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,

And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as stoics feign

Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;

And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see

What hidden springs within the engine be:

Or 'tis some happiness, that still pursues

Each act and motion of your graceful muse.

Or is it fortune's work, that in your head

The curious net that is for fancies spread,[4]

Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,

While rich ideas there are only caught?

Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair

To be the child of chance, and not of care.

No atoms, casually together hurled,

Could e'er produce so beautiful a world;

Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,

As would destroy the providence of wit.

'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel

Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.

To carry weight, and run so lightly too,

Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,

Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.

Your easier odes, which for delight were penned,

Yet our instruction make their second end;

We're both enriched and pleased, like them that woo

At once a beauty, and a fortune too.

Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,

And still she might, had wanton wits not been;

Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,

And, not content with that, debauched their charge.

Like some brave captain, your successful pen

Restores the exiled to her crown again;

And gives us hope, that having seen the days

When nothing flourished but fanatic bays,

All will at length in this opinion rest,--

"A sober prince's government is best."

This is not all; your art the way has found

To make improvement of the richest ground;

That soil which those immortal laurels bore,

That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.[5]

Eliza's griefs are so expressed by you,

They are too eloquent to have been true.

Had she so spoke, Æneas had obeyed

What Dido, rather than what Jove, had said.

If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,

Your muse so justly has discharged those,

Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,

And claim a title to the fields of peace.

But if Æneas be obliged, no less

Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;

Who, dressed by Statius in too bold a look,

Did ill become those virgin robes he took.[6]

To understand how much we owe to you,

We must your numbers, with your author's, view:

Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,

Each figure stiff, as if designed in buff;

His colours laid so thick on every place,

As only showed the paint, but hid the face.

But, as in perspective, we beauties see,

Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;

So here our sight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.

Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks, disguised,

More for their dressing than their substance prized.

Your curious notes[7] so search into that age,

When all was fable but the sacred page,

That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,

We are at least misled in pleasant way.

But, what we most admire, your verse no less

The prophet than the poet doth confess.

Ere our weak eyes discerned the doubtful streak

Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break:[8]

So skilful seamen ken the land from far,

Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.

To Charles your muse first pays her duteous love,

As still the ancients did begin from Jove;

With Monk you end,[9] whose name preserved shall be,

As Rome recorded Rufus' memory;

Who thought it greater honour to obey

His country's interest, than the world to sway.[10]

But to write worthy things of worthy men,

Is the peculiar talent of your pen;

Yet let me take your mantle up, and I

Will venture, in your right, to prophecy:--

"This work, by merit first of fame secure,

Is likewise happy in its geniture;[11]

For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,

It shares at once his fortune and its own."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Used for _elaborate composition_.]

[Footnote 3: Some of Sir Robert Howard's songs were set to music. One of

them, beginning, "O Charon, gentle Charon," is quoted as a popular air

in one of Shadwell's plays.]

[Footnote 4: Rete Mirabile. DRYDEN.]

[Footnote 5: Sir Robert Howard's collection contains a translation of

the Fourth Book of the Æneid, under the title of "The Loves of Dido and

Æneas."]

[Footnote 6: Sir Robert also translated the Achilleis of Statius, an

author whom Dryden seldom mentions without censuring his turgid and

bombastic style of poetry. The story of this neglected epic turns on the

juvenile adventures of Achilles.]

[Footnote 7: The annotations on the Achilleis.]

[Footnote 8: Sir Robert Howard's poems contain a "Panegyric to the

King," concerning which he says, in the preliminary address to the

reader, "I should be a little dissatisfied with myself to appear public

in his praise just when he was visibly restoring to power, did not the

reading of the Panegyric vindicate the writing of it, and, besides my

affirmation, assure the reader, it was written when the king deserved

the praise as much as now, but was separated farther from the power;

which was about three years since, when I was prisoner in Windsor

Castle, being the best diversion I could then find for my own condition,

to think how great his virtues were for whom I suffered, though in so

small a measure compared to his own, that I rather blush at it, than

believe it meritorious."]

[Footnote 9: The volume begins with the "Poem to the King," and ends

with a "Panegyric to General Monk."]

[Footnote 10:

_Hic situs est Rufus qui pulso vindice quondam,

Imperium asseruit non sibi sed patriæ._

DRYDEN.

]

[Footnote 11: The author speaks the language of astrology, in which

geniture signifies nativity.]

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

DR CHARLETON,

ON HIS

LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS,

BUT MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONEHENGE,

BY HIM RESTORED TO THE TRUE

FOUNDER.

WALTER CHARLETON, M.D. was born in 1619, and educated at Oxford to the

profession of physic, in which he became very eminent. During the

residence of King Charles I. at Oxford, in the civil wars, Charleton

became one of the physicians in ordinary to his majesty. He afterwards

settled in London; and, having a strong bent towards philosophical and

historical investigation, became intimate with the most learned and

liberal of his profession, particularly with Ent and Harvey. He wrote

several treatises in the dark period preceding the Restoration, when,

the government being in the hands of swordsmen equally ignorant and

fanatical, a less ardent mind would have been discouraged from

investigations, attended neither by fame nor profit. These essays were

upon physical, philosophical, and moral subjects. After the Restoration,

Charleton published the work upon which he is here congratulated by our

author. Its full title is, "CHOREA GIGANTUM, or the most famous

antiquity of Great Britain, STONEHENGE, standing on Salisbury Plain,

restored to the Danes. By Walter Charleton, M.D., and Physician in

Ordinary to his Majesty. London, 1663, 4to." The opinion which Dr

Charleton had formed concerning the origin of this stupendous monument

is strengthened by the information which he received from the famous

northern antiquary, Olaus Wormius. But it is nevertheless hypothetical,

and inconsistent with evidence; for Stonehenge is expressly mentioned by

Nennius, who wrote two hundred years before the arrival of the Danes in

Britain. If it be true, which is alleged by some writers, that it was

anciently called Stan-Hengist, or, indeed, whether that be true or no,

the monument seems likely to have been a Saxon erection, during their

days of paganism; for it is neither mentioned by Cæsar nor Tacitus, who

were both likely to have noticed a structure of so remarkable an

appearance. Leaving the book to return to the author, I am sorry to add,

that this learned man, after being president of the College of

Physicians, and thus having attained the highest honours of his

profession, in 1691 fell into embarrassed circumstances, which forced

him shortly after to take refuge in the island of Jersey. It is

uncertain if Dr Charleton ever returned from this sort of exile; but his

death took place in 1707, at the advanced age of eighty-eight years.

Dr Charleton's hypothesis concerning Stonehenge was but indifferently

received. It was considered as a personal attack on Inigo Jones, who had

formed a much more fantastic opinion upon the subject, conceiving the

stones to form a temple, dedicated, by the Romans, to the god Cælus, or

Cælum. To the disgrace of that great architect's accuracy, it seems

probable that he never had seen the monument which he attempts to

describe; for he has converted an irregular polygon into a regular

hexagon, in order to suit his own system. Dryden sided with Charleton in

his theory; and, in the following elegant epistle, compliments him as

having discovered the long-forgotten cause of this strange monument. The

verses are not only valuable for the poetry and numbers, but for the

accurate and interesting account which they present of the learning and

philosophers of the age. It was probably written soon before the

publication of Charleton's book in 1663. Sir Robert Howard also favoured

Dr Charleton with a copy of recommendatory verses. Both poems are

prefixed to the second edition of the "Chorea Gigantum," which is the

only one I have seen. That of Dryden seems to have been afterwards

revised and corrected.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

The longest tyranny that ever swayed,

Was that wherein our ancestors betrayed

Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,

And made his torch their universal light.

So truth, while only one supplied the state,

Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.

Still it was[12] bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms,

Hard words sealed up with Aristotle's arms.

Columbus was the first that shook his throne,

And found a temperate in a torrid zone:

The feverish air, fanned by a cooling breeze;

The fruitful vales, set round with shady trees;

And guiltless men, who danced away their time,

Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime.

Had we still paid that homage to a name,

Which only God and nature justly claim,

The western seas had been our utmost bound,

Where poets still might dream the sun was drowned;

And all the stars, that shine in southern skies,

Had been admired by none but savage eyes.

Among the assertors of free reason's claim,

Our nation's not[13] the least in worth or fame.

The world to Bacon[14] does not only owe

Its present knowledge, but its future too.

Gilbert[15] shall live, till loadstones cease to draw,

Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe.

And noble Boyle,[16] not less in nature seen,

Than his great brother, read in states and men.

The circling streams, once thought but pools, of blood,

(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food,)

From dark oblivion Harvey's[17] name shall save;

While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.

Nor are you, learned friend, the least renowned;

Whose fame, not circumscribed with English ground,

Flies like the nimble journies of the light,

And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.

Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,

Redeemed from error, or from ignorance,

Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,

Your works unite, and still discover more.

Such is the healing virtue of your pen,

To perfect cures on books, as well as men.

Nor is this work the least; you well may give

To men new vigour, who make stones to live.

Through you, the Danes, their short dominion lost,

A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.

Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found

A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crowned;

Where by their wondering subjects they were seen,

Joyed[18] with their stature, and their princely mien.

Our sovereign here above the rest might stand,

And here be chose again to rule the land.

These ruins sheltered once his sacred head,

When he from Wor'ster's fatal battle fled;

Watched by the genius of this royal place,

And mighty visions of the Danish race.

His refuge then was for a temple shown;

But, he restored, 'tis now become a throne.[19]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 12: The copy prefixed to the "Chorea Gigantum" reads, _Until

'twas_.]

[Footnote 13: First edition, _The English are not_.]

[Footnote 14: Bacon, Lord Verulam, a name beyond panegyric.]

[Footnote 15: William Gilbert, M.D. chief physician to Queen Elizabeth

and King James I. He published a treatise, "_De Magnete, magnetecisque

corporibus, et de magno magnete Tellure Physiologia Nova_. London, 1600,

folio." This treatise on the magnet is termed by the great Bacon "a

painful and experimental work." Gilbert also invented two instruments

for the use of seamen in calculating the latitude, without the aid of

the heavenly bodies. He died A.D. 1603.]

[Footnote 16: The Hon. Robert Boyle, who so laudably distinguished his

name by his experimental researches, was a son of the great Earl of

Corke. He was about this time actively engaged in the formation of the

Royal Society, of which he may be considered as one of the principal

founders. This necessarily placed his merits under Dryden's eye, who was

himself an original member of that learned body. His _great brother_ was

Roger Lord Broghill, created upon the Restoration Earl of Orrery, to

whom Dryden dedicated the "Rival Ladies." See Vol. II. p. 113.]

[Footnote 17: William Harvey, the famous discoverer of the circulation

of the blood. His _Exercitatio Anatomica de motu cordis et sanguinis_,

was printed at Frankfort, 1627. He adhered to his master Charles I.

during the civil wars; and when his affairs became desperate, retired to

privacy in London. His last treatise, entitled, _Exercitatio de

generatione Animalium_, was published in 1651, at the request of Dr

George Ent, a learned physician, mentioned by Dryden in the next line.

This gentleman, in a dedication to the President and College of

Physicians, gives a detailed account of the difficulty which he had in

prevailing on the aged and retired philosopher to give his work to the

press, which he only consented to do on Dr Ent's undertaking the task of

editor. Harvey died in June 1667.

Ent himself was a physician of eminence, and received the honour of

knighthood from Charles II. He defended Dr Harvey's theory of

circulation against Parisanus, in a treatise, entitled, _Apologia pro

circulatione sanguinis contra Æmilianum Parisanum_. He was an active

member of the Royal Society, and died, according to Wood, 13th October,

1689.]

[Footnote 18: First edit. _Chose by._]

[Footnote 19: This conceit, turning on the ancient and modern

hypothesis, is founded on the following curious passage in Dr

Charleton's dedication of the "_Chorea Gigantum_" to Charles II. "Your

majesty's curiosity to survey the subject of this discourse, the so

much admired antiquity of Stone-Henge, hath sometime been so great and

urgent, as to find room in your royal breast, amidst your weightiest

cares; and to carry you many miles out of your way towards safety, when

any heart, but your fearless and invincible one, would have been wholly

filled with apprehensions of danger. For as I have had the honour to

hear from that oracle of truth and wisdom, your majesty's own mouth, you

were pleased to visit that monument, and for many hours together

entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof; when, after the

defeat of your loyal army at Worcester, Almighty God, in infinite mercy

to your three kingdoms, miraculously delivered you out of the bloody

jaws of those monsters of sin and cruelty, who, taking counsel only from

the heinousness of their crimes, sought impunity in the highest

aggravation of them; desperately hoping to secure rebellion by regicide,

and by destroying their sovereign, to continue their tyranny over their

fellow-subjects."]

EPISTLE THE FOURTH.

TO THE

LADY CASTLEMAIN,

UPON HER ENCOURAGING HIS FIRST PLAY,

THE WILD GALLANT,

ACTED IN 1662-3.

Barbara Villiers, heiress of William Viscount Grandison, in Ireland, and

wife of Roger Palmer, Esq., was the first favourite, who after the

Restoration of Charles II. enjoyed the power and consequence of a royal

mistress. It is even said, that the king took her from her husband, upon

the very day of his landing, and raised him, in compensation, to the

rank and title of Earl of Castlemain. The lady herself was created Lady

Nonsuch, Countess of Southampton, and finally Duchess of Cleveland. She

bore the king three sons and three daughters, and long enjoyed a

considerable share of his favour.

It would seem, that, in 1662-3, while Lady Castlemain was in the very

height of her reign, she extended her patronage to our author, upon his

commencing his dramatic career. In the preface to his first play, "The

Wild Gallant," he acknowledges, that it met with very indifferent

success, and had been condemned by the greater part of the audience. But

he adds, "it was well received at court, and was more than once the

divertisement of his majesty by his own command."[20] These marks of

royal favour were doubtless owing to the intercession of Lady

Castlemain. If we can trust the sarcasm thrown out by a contemporary

satirist, our author piqued himself more on this light and gallant

effusion, than its importance deserved.[21] The verses abound with

sprightly and ingenious turns; and the conceits, which were the taste of

the age, shew to some advantage on such an occasion. There is, however,

little propriety in comparing the influence of the royal mistress to the

virtue of Cato.

[Footnote 20: Preface to "The Wild Gallant," Vol. II. p. 17.]

[Footnote 21:

Dryden, who one would have thought had more wit,

The censure of every man did disdain;

Pleading some pitiful rhymes he had writ

In praise of the Countess of Castlemain.

_Session of the Poets_, 1670.

]

EPISTLE THE FOURTH.

As seamen, shipwrecked on some happy shore,

Discover wealth in lands unknown before;

And, what their art had laboured long in vain,

By their misfortunes happily obtain:

So my much-envied muse, by storms long tost,

Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,

And finds more favour by her ill success,

Than she could hope for by her happiness.

Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;

While they the victor, he the vanquished chose;

But you have done what Cato could not do,

To choose the vanquished, and restore him too.

Let others still triumph, and gain their cause

By their deserts, or by the world's applause;

Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,

But let me happy by your pity live.

True poets empty fame and praise despise,

Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize.[22]

You sit above, and see vain men below

Contend for what you only can bestow;

But those great actions others do by chance,

Are, like your beauty, your inheritance:

So great a soul, such sweetness joined in one,

Could only spring from noble Grandison.

You, like the stars, not by reflection bright,

Are born to your own heaven, and your own light;

Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,

From your own knowledge, not from nature's laws.

Your power you never use, but for defence,

To guard your own, or others' innocence:

Your foes are such, as they, not you, have made,

And virtue may repel, though not invade.

Such courage did the ancient heroes show,

Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow;

With such assurance as they meant to say,

We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.

What further fear of danger can there be?

Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free.

Posterity will judge by my success,

I had the Grecian poet's happiness,

Who, waving plots, found out a better way;

Some God descended, and preserved the play.

When first the triumphs of your sex were sung

By those old poets, beauty was but young,

And few admired the native red and white,

Till poets dressed them up to charm the sight;

So beauty took on trust, and did engage

For sums of praises till she came to age.

But this long-growing debt to poetry,

You justly, madam, have discharged to me,

When your applause and favour did infuse

New life to my condemned and dying muse.

[Footnote 22: This seems to be the passage sneered at in the "Session of

the Poets."]

EPISTLE THE FIFTH.

TO

MR LEE,

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF

THE RIVAL QUEENS, OR ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

1677.

"The Rival Queens, or Alexander the Great," of Nathaniel Lee, has been

always deemed the most capital performance of its unfortunate author.

There is nothing throughout the play that is tame or indifferent; all is

either exquisitely good, or extravagantly bombastic, though some

passages hover between the sublime and the ludicrous. Addison has justly

remarked, that Lee's "thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy, but

frequently lost in such a crowd of words, that it is hard to see the

beauty of them. There is infinite fire in his works, but so involved in

smoke, that it does not appear in half its lustre."

Lee and our author lived on terms of strict friendship, and wrote, in

conjunction, "Œdipus," and the "Duke of Guise." Lee's madness and

confinement in Bedlam are well known; as also his repartee to a coxcomb,

who told him, it was easy to write like a madman:--"No," answered the

poet, "it is not easy to write like a madman, but it is very easy to

write like a fool." Dryden elegantly apologizes, in the following

verses, for the extravagance of his style of poetry. Lee's death was

very melancholy: Being discharged from Bedlam, and returning by night

from a tavern, in a state of intoxication, to his lodgings in

Duke-street, he fell down somewhere in Clare-Market, and was either

killed by a carriage driving over him, or stifled in the snow, which was

then deep. Thus died this eminent dramatic poet in the year 1691, or

1692, in the 35th year of his age.

EPISTLE THE FIFTH.

The blast of common censure could I fear,

Before your play my name should not appear;

For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,

I pay the bribe I first received from you;

That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,

And play the game into each others hand;

And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,

As Bessus and the brothers of the sword.[23]

Such libels private men may well endure,

When states and kings themselves are not secure;

For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,

Think the best actions on by-ends are built.

And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;

Then, envy had not suffered me to write;

For, since I could not ignorance pretend,

Such merit I must envy or commend.

So many candidates there stand for wit,

A place at court is scarce so hard to get:

In vain they crowd each other at the door;

For e'en reversions are all begged before:

Desert, how known soe'er, is long delayed,

And then, too, fools and knaves are better paid.

Yet, as some actions bear so great a name,

That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame;

So has the mighty merit of your play

Extorted praise, and forced itself a way.

'Tis here as 'tis at sea; who farthest goes,

Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.

Yet when some virtue much outgrows the rest,

It shoots too fast, and high, to be supprest;

As his heroic worth struck envy dumb,

Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.[24]

Such praise is yours, while you the passions move,

That 'tis no longer feigned, 'tis real love,

Where nature triumphs over wretched art;

We only warm the head, but you the heart.

Always you warm; and if the rising year,

As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,

'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,

Which in our cooler climates will not grow.

They only think you animate your theme

With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.

Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,

Were cripples made the judges of the race.

Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse,

The too much vigour of your youthful muse.

That humble style, which they your virtue make,

Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.

Your beauteous images must be allowed

By all, but some vile poets of the crowd.

But how should any sign-post dauber know

The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?

Hard features every bungler can command;

To draw true beauty, shews a master's hand.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: Our author alludes to the copy of verses addressed to him

by Lee, on his drama, called the "State of Innocence," and which the

reader will find in Vol. V. p. 103. Dryden expresses some apprehension,

lest his friend and he should be considered as vouching for each other's

genius, in the same manner that Bessus and the two swordsmen, in "King

and no King," grant certificates of each others courage, after having

been all soundly beaten and kicked by Bacurius.

"_2 Swordsman._ Captain, we must request your hand now to our honours.

_Bessus._ Yes, marry shall ye; and then let all the world come, we are

valiant to ourselves, and there's an end." _Act V._]

[Footnote 24: The person thus distinguished seems to be the gallant Sir

Edward Spragge, noted for his gallantry in the two Dutch wars, and

finally killed in the great battle of 11th August, 1672. In 1671, he was

sent to the Mediterranean with a squadron, to chastise the Algerines. He

found seven vessels belonging to these pirates, lying in the bay of

Bugia, covered by the fire of a castle and forts, and defended by a

boom, drawn across the entrance of the bay, made of yards, top-masts,

and cables, buoyed up by casks. Nevertheless, Sir Edward bore into the

bay, silenced the forts, and, having broken the boom with his pinnaces,

sent in a fire-ship, which effectually destroyed the Algerine squadron;

a blow which was long remembered by these piratical states.]

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

TO THE

EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS EXCELLENT

ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.

The Earl of Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse," a work which

abounds with much excellent criticism, expressed in correct, succinct,

and manly language, was first published in 4to, in 1680: a second

edition, corrected and enlarged, appeared in 1684. To both editions are

prefixed the following copy of verses by our author; and to the second

there is also one in Latin by his son Charles Dryden, afterwards

translated by Mr Needler.

The high applause which our author has here and elsewhere[25] bestowed

on the "Essay on Translated Verse," is censured by Dr Johnson, as

unmerited and exaggerated. But while something is allowed for the

partiality of a friend, and the zeal of a panegyrist, it must also be

remembered, that the rules of criticism, now so well known as to be even

trite and hackneyed, were then almost new to the literary world, and

that translation was but then beginning to be emancipated from the

fetters of verbal and literal versions. But Johnson elsewhere does

Roscommon more justice, where he acknowledges, that "he improved taste,

if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the

benefactors of English literature."

Dryden has testified, in several places of his works, that he loved and

honoured Roscommon; particularly by inscribing and applying to him his

version of the Third Ode of the First Book of Horace.[26] Roscommon

repaid these favours by a copy of verses addressed to Dryden on the

"Religio Laici."[27]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 25: See Vol. XII. p. 264.]

[Footnote 26: Vol. XII. p. 341.]

[Footnote 27: Vol. X. p. 33.]

EPISTLE THE SIXTH.

Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,

The seeds of arts and infant science bore,

'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first,

Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nurst.

The Grecians added verse; their tuneful tongue

Made nature first, and nature's God their song.

Nor stopt translation here; for conquering Rome,

With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;

Enriched by those Athenian muses more,

Than all the vanquished world could yield before.

Till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times,

Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes;

Those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose,

That limped along, and tinkled in the close.

But Italy, reviving from the trance

Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,

With pauses, cadence, and well-vowel'd words,

And all the graces a good ear affords,

Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polished page

Restored a silver, not a golden age.

Then Petrarch followed, and in him we see, }

What rhyme improved in all its height can be; }

At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity. }

The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last,

In manly sweetness all the rest surpassed.

The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,

Appear exalted in the British loom:

The Muses' empire is restored again,

In Charles his reign, and by Roscommon's pen.

Yet modestly he does his work survey,

And calls a finished poem an essay;

For all the needful rules are scattered here; }

Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; }

So well is art disguised, for nature to appear. }

Nor need those rules to give translation light;

His own example is a flame so bright,

That he, who but arrives to copy well,

Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.

Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain,

Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.

How much in him may rising Ireland boast,

How much in gaining him has Britain lost!

Their island in revenge has ours reclaimed;

The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed.

'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow,

Derived from British channels long ago,[28]

That here his conquering ancestors were nurst,

And Ireland but translated England first:

By this reprizal we regain our right,

Else must the two contending nations fight;

A nobler quarrel for his native earth,

Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.

To what perfection will our tongue arrive,

How will invention and translation thrive,

When authors nobly born will bear their part,

And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!

Great generals thus, descending from command,

With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand.

How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear

His fame augmented by an English peer;[29]

How he embellishes his Helen's loves,

Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves?

When these translate, and teach translators too,

Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow,

Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand: }

Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand, }

Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand. }

Roscommon, whom both court and camps commend,

True to his prince, and faithful to his friend;

Roscommon, first in fields of honour known, }

First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; }

Who both Minervas justly makes his own. }

Now let the few beloved by Jove, and they

Whom infused Titan formed of better clay,

On equal terms with ancient wit engage,

Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page:

Our English palace opens wide in state,

And without stooping they may pass the gate.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Roscommon, it must be remembered, was born in Ireland,

where his property also was situated. But the Dillons were of English

extraction.]

[Footnote 29: In this verse, which savours of the bathos, our author

passes from Roscommon to Mulgrave; another "author nobly born," who

about this time had engaged with Dryden and others in the version of

Ovid's Epistles, published in 1680. The Epistle of Helen to Paris,

alluded to in the lines which follow, was jointly translated by Mulgrave

and Dryden, although the poet politely ascribes the whole merit to his

noble co-adjutor. See Vol. XII. p. 26.]

EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.

TO THE

DUCHESS OF YORK,

ON HER

RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, IN THE YEAR 1682.

These smooth and elegant lines are addressed to Mary of Este, second

wife of James Duke of York, and afterwards his queen. She was at this

time in all the splendour of beauty; tall, and admirably formed in her

person; dignified and graceful in her deportment, her complexion very

fair, and her hair and eye-brows of the purest black. Her personal

charms fully merited the encomiastic strains of the following epistle.

The Duchess accompanied her husband to Scotland, where he was sent into

a kind of honorary banishment, during the dependence of the Bill of

Exclusion. Upon the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, the Duke

visited the court in triumph; and after two months stay, returned to

Scotland, and in his voyage suffered the misfortune of shipwreck,

elsewhere mentioned particularly.[30] Having settled the affairs of

Scotland, he returned with his family to England; whence he had been

virtually banished for three years. His return was hailed by the poets

of the royal party with unbounded congratulation. It is celebrated by

Tate, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel;"[31] and by our

author, in a prologue spoken before the Duke and Duchess.[32] But, not

contented with that expression of zeal, Dryden paid the following

additional tribute upon the same occasion.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 30: Vol. IX. p. 402.]

[Footnote 31: Vol. IX. p. 344.]

[Footnote 32: Vol. X. p. 366. Otway furnished an epilogue on the same

night.]

EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.

When factious rage to cruel exile drove

The queen of beauty, and the court of love,

The Muses drooped, with their forsaken arts,

And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts;

Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turned,

Like Eden's face, when banished man it mourned.

Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,

The great supporter of his awful throne.

Love could no longer after beauty stay, }

But wandered northward to the verge of day, }

As if the sun and he had lost their way. }

But now the illustrious nymph, returned again,

Brings every grace triumphant in her train.

The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,

Foreslowed her passage, to behold her form:

Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis past;

But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.

Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;

And Envy did but look on her, and died.

Whate'er we suffered from our sullen fate,

Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.

Three gloomy years against this day were set;

But this one mighty sum has cleared the debt:

Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,

The famine past, the plenty still to come.

For her, the weeping heavens become serene;

For her, the ground is clad in cheerful green;

For her, the nightingales are taught to sing,

And Nature has for her delayed the spring.

The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, }

And Love restored his ancient realm surveys, }

Recals our beauties, and revives our plays, }

His waste dominions peoples once again,

And from her presence dates his second reign.

But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,

Dispensing what she never will admit;

Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,

The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.

Distempered zeal, sedition, cankered hate,

No more shall vex the church, and tear the state;

No more shall faction civil discords move,

Or only discords of too tender love:

Discord, like that of music's various parts;

Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;

Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,

Who best shall love the duke, and serve the king.

EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.

TO MY FRIEND,

MR J. NORTHLEIGH,

AUTHOR OF

THE PARALLEL;

ON HIS

TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY.

These verses have been recovered by Mr Malone, and are transferred, from

his life of Dryden, into the present collection of his works. John

Northleigh was by profession a student of law, though he afterwards

became a physician; and was in politics a keen Tory. He wrote "The

Parallel, or the new specious Association, an old rebellious Covenant,

closing with a disparity between a true Patriot and a factious

Associator." London, 1682, folio. This work was anonymous; but attracted

so much applause among the High-churchmen, that, according to Wood, Dr

Lawrence Womack called the author "an excellent person, whose name his

own modesty, or prudence, as well as the iniquity of the times, keeps

from us."

Proceeding in the same track of politics, Northleigh published two

pamphlets on the side of the Tories, in the dispute between the

petitioners and abhorrers; and finally produced, "The Triumph of our

Monarchy, over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and Republicans,

being remarks on their most eminent Libels. London, 1685." This last

publication called forth the following lines from our author.

Northleigh was the son of a Hamburgh merchant, and born in that city. He

became a student in Exeter College, in 1674, aged 17 years; and was, it

appears, studying law in the Inner Temple in 1685, when his book was

published. He was then, consequently, about 28 years old; so that his

genius was not peculiarly premature, notwithstanding our author's

compliment. He afterwards took a medical degree at Cambridge, and

practised physic at Exeter.--WOOD, _Athenæ Oxon_. Vol. II. p. 962.

These verses, like the address to Hoddesdon, are ranked among the

Epistles, because Dryden gave that title to other recommendatory verses

of the same nature.

EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.

So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well }

The boding dream, and did the event foretell; }

Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel. }

Thus early Solomon the truth explored,

The right awarded, and the babe restored.

Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew, }

The perjured Presbyters did first subdue, }

And freed Susanna from the canting crew. }

Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,

While warlike James protects both sea and land;

And, under covert of his seven-fold shield,

Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field.

By law thy powerful pen has set us free;

Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.

EPISTLE THE NINTH.

A

LETTER

TO

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.

Sir George Etherege, as a lively and witty companion, a smooth

sonnetteer, and an excellent writer of comedy, was in high reputation in

the seventeenth century. He lived on terms of intimacy with the men of

genius, and with those of rank, at the court of Charles the Second, and

appears to have been particularly acquainted with Dryden. Etherege

enjoyed in a particular manner the favour of Queen Mary of Este, through

whose influence he was sent envoy to Hamburgh, and afterwards became

resident minister at Ratisbon. In this situation, he did not cease to

interest himself in the progress of English literature; and we have

several of his letters, both in prose and verse, written with great wit

and vivacity, to the Duke of Buckingham, and other persons of wit and

honour at the court of London. Among others, he wrote an epistle in

verse to the Earl of Middleton, who engaged Dryden to return the

following answer to it. As Sir George's verses are lively and pleasing,

I have prefixed them to Dryden's epistle. Both pieces, with a second

letter from Etherege to Middleton, appeared in Dryden's Miscellanies.

Our poet's epistle to Sir George Etherege affords an example how easily

Dryden could adapt his poetry to the style which the moment required;

since, although this is the only instance in which he has used the

verse of eight syllables, it flows as easily from his pen as if he had

never written in another measure. This is the more remarkable, as, in

the "Essay on Satire," Dryden speaks very contemptuously of the eight

syllable, or Hudibrastic measure, and the ornaments proper to it, as a

little instrument, unworthy the use of a great master.[33] Here,

however, he happily retorts upon the witty knight, with his own weapons

of gallant and courtly ridicule, and acquits himself, as well in the

light arms of a polite and fashionable courtier, as when he wields the

trenchant brand of his own keen satire.

Our author had formerly favoured Sir George Etherege with an excellent

epilogue to his popular play, called "The Man of Mode," acted in 1676,

and he occasionally speaks of him in his writings with great respect.

The date of this epistle is not easily ascertained. From a letter of

Etherege to the Duke of Buckingham, it appears, that Sir George was at

Ratisbon when Dryden was engaged in his controversial poetry;[34] but

whether that letter be previous or subsequent to the epistle to the Earl

of Middleton, seems uncertain.

Considering the high reputation which Sir George Etherege enjoyed, and

the figure which he made as a courtier and a man of letters, it is

humbling to add, that we have no accurate information concerning the

time or manner of his death. It seems certain, that he never returned

from the Continent; but it is dubious, whether, according to one report,

he followed the fortunes of King James, and resided with him at the

court of St Germains till his death, or whether, as others have said,

that event was occasioned by his falling down the stairs of his own

house at Ratisbon, when, after drinking freely with a large company, he

was attempting to do the honours of their retreat. From the date of the

letter to the Duke of Buckingham, 21st October, 1689, it is plain he was

then at Ratisbon; and it is somewhat singular, that he appears to have

retained his official situation of Resident, though nearly twelve months

had elapsed since the Revolution. This seems to give countenance to the

latter report of his having died at Ratisbon. The date of that event was

probably about 1694.

[Footnote 33: Vol. XIII. p. 108.]

[Footnote 34: "They tell me my old acquaintance, Mr Dryden, has left off

the theatre, and wholly applies himself to the study of the

controversies between the two churches. Pray heaven, this strange

alteration in him portends nothing disastrous to the state; but I have

all along observed, that poets do religion as little service by drawing

their pens for it, as the divines do poetry, by pretending to

versification." This letter is dated 21st October, 1689.]

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE,

TO THE

EARL OF MIDDLETON.[35]

Since love and verse, as well as wine,

Are brisker where the sun does shine,

'Tis something to lose two degrees,

Now age itself begins to freeze:

Yet this I patiently could bear, }

If the rough Danube's beauties were }

But only two degrees less fair }

Than the bright nymphs of gentle Thames,

Who warm me hither with their beams:

Such power they have, they can dispense

Five hundred miles their influence.

But hunger forces men to eat,

Though no temptation's in the meat.

How would the ogling sparks despise

The darling damsel of my eyes,

Should they behold her at a play,

As she's tricked up on holiday,

When the whole family combine,

For public pride, to make her shine!

Her locks, which long before lay matted,

Are on this day combed out and plaited;

A diamond bodkin in each tress,

The badges of her nobleness;

For every stone, as well as she,

Can boast an ancient pedigree.

These formed the jewel erst did grace

The cap of the first Grave[36] o' the race,

Preferred by Graffin[37] Marian

To adorn the handle of her fan;

And, as by old record appears,

Worn since in Kunigunda's years,

Now sparkling in the froein's hair;[38] }

No rocket breaking in the air }

Can with her starry head compare. }

Such ropes of pearl her arms encumber,

She scarce can deal the cards at omber;

So many rings each finger freight,

They tremble with the mighty weight.

The like in England ne'er was seen,

Since Holbein drew Hal[39] and his queen:

But after these fantastic flights,

The lustre's meaner than the lights.

The thing that bears this glittering pomp

Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp,

Whose brawny limbs and martial face

Proclaim her of the Gothic race,

More than the mangled pageantry

Of all the father's heraldry.

But there's another sort of creatures,

Whose ruddy look and grotesque features

Are so much out of nature's way,

You'd think them stamped on other clay,

No lawful daughters of old Adam.

'Mongst these behold a city madam,

With arms in mittins, head in muff,

A dapper cloak, and reverend ruff:

No farce so pleasant as this maukin,

And the soft sound of High-Dutch talking.

Here, unattended by the Graces,

The queen of love in a sad case is.

Nature, her active minister,

Neglects affairs, and will not stir;

Thinks it not worth the while to please,

But when she does it for her ease.

Even I, her most devout adorer,

With wandering thoughts appear before her,

And when I'm making an oblation, }

Am fain to spur imagination }

With some sham London inclination: }

The bow is bent at German dame,

The arrow flies at English game.

Kindness, that can indifference warm,

And blow that calm into a storm,

Has in the very tenderest hour

Over my gentleness a power;

True to my country-women's charms,

When kissed and pressed in foreign arms.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 35: Charles, 2d Earl of Middleton, a man of some literary

accomplishment. He had been Envoy Extraordinary to the Emperor of

Germany, and was now one of the secretaries of state for Scotland.]

[Footnote 36: Graf, or Count.]

[Footnote 37: Countess.]

[Footnote 38: _Quere_, Did Pope think of this passage in his famous

account of Belinda's bodkin?]

[Footnote 39: Henry VIII.]

EPISTLE THE NINTH.

To you, who live in chill degree,

As map informs, of fifty-three,[40]

And do not much for cold atone,

By bringing thither fifty-one,

Methinks all climes should be alike,

From tropic even to pole artique;

Since you have such a constitution

As no where suffers diminution.

You can be old in grave debate,

And young in love affairs of state;

And both to wives and husbands show

The vigour of a plenipo.

Like mighty missioner you come

_Ad Partes Infidelium_.

A work of wonderous merit sure,

So far to go, so much t'endure;

And all to preach to German dame,

Where sound of Cupid never came.

Less had you done, had you been sent

As far as Drake or Pinto went,

For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,

Or even for oranges to China.

That had indeed been charity, }

Where love-sick ladies helpless lie, }

Chapt, and, for want of liquor, dry. }

But you have made your zeal appear

Within the circle of the Bear.

What region of the earth's so dull,

That is not of your labours full?

Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)

Strewed plenty from his cart divine;

But spite of all these fable-makers,

He never sowed on Almain acres.

No, that was left by fate's decree

To be performed and sung by thee.

Thou break'st through forms with as much ease

As the French king through articles.

In grand affairs thy days are spent, }

In waging weighty compliment, }

With such as monarchs represent. }

They, whom such vast fatigues attend,

Want some soft minutes to unbend,

To shew the world that, now and then,

Great ministers are mortal men.

Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;

In bumpers every king is crowned;

Besides three holy mitred Hectors,[41]

And the whole college of Electors.

No health of potentate is sunk,

That pays to make his envoy drunk.

These Dutch delights, I mentioned last,

Suit not, I know, your English taste:

For wine to leave a whore or play,

Was ne'er your Excellency's way.[42]

Nor need this title give offence,

For here you were your Excellence;

For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,

His Excellence for all--but sleeping.

Now if you tope in form, and treat, }

'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, }

The fine you pay for being great. }

Nay, here's a harder imposition,

Which is indeed the court's petition,

That, setting worldly pomp aside,

Which poet has at font denied,

You would be pleased in humble way

To write a trifle called a Play.

This truly is a degradation, }

But would oblige the crown and nation }

Next to your wise negotiation. }

If you pretend, as well you may, }

Your high degree, your friends will say, }

The duke St Aignon made a play. }

If Gallic wit convince you scarce,

His grace of Bucks has made a farce,

And you, whose comic wit is terse all,

Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.

Then finish what you have began,

But scribble faster if you can;

For yet no George, to our discerning,

Has writ without a ten years warning.[43]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 40: The map does not convey any such information. Ratisbon

lies in latitude 48° 58´ N. Dryden alludes to the commencement of

Etherege's epistle to Middleton, in which he mentions having gone three

degrees northward, London being 41° 15´ N. Dryden transfers Ratisbon

into a high latitude, merely to suit the rhyme, and produce the

antithesis of 53 degrees latitude, to 52 years of age.]

[Footnote 41: The three ecclesiastical Electors WERE, the Electors of

Treves, Cologne, and Mentz. At this time the Diet of the empire was

sitting at Ratisbon.]

[Footnote 42: Etherege has been pleased to confirm our author's opinion

of the German jollity, and his own inclination to softer pleasures, by

the following passage of a letter to the Duke of Buckingham.

"I find that to this day, they (_i.e._ the Germans) make good the

observation that Tacitus made of their ancestors; I mean, that their

affairs (let them be never so serious and pressing) never put a stop to

good eating and drinking, and that they debate their weightiest

negociations over their cups.

"'Tis true, they carry this humour by much too far for one of my

complexion; for which reason I decline appearing among them, but when my

master's concerns make it necessary for me to come to their assemblies:

They are, indeed, a free-hearted open sort of gentlemen that compose the

Diet, without reserve, affectation, and artifice; but they are such

unmerciful plyers of the bottle, so wholly given up to what our sots

call good-fellowship, that 'tis as great a constraint upon my nature to

sit out a night's entertainment with them, as it would be to hear half a

score long-winded Presbyterian divines cant successively one after

another.

"To unbosom myself frankly and freely to your grace, I always looked

upon drunkenness to be an unpardonable crime in a young fellow, who,

without any of these foreign helps, has fire enough in his veins to

enable him to do justice to Cælia whenever she demands a tribute from

him. In a middle-aged man, I consider the bottle only as subservient to

the nobler pleasures of love; and he that would suffer himself to be so

far infatuated by it, as to neglect the pursuit of a more agreeable

game, I think deserves no quarter from the ladies: In old age, indeed,

when it is convenient very often to forget and even steal from

ourselves, I am of opinion, that a little drunkenness, discreetly used,

may as well contribute to our health of body as tranquillity of soul.

"Thus I have given your grace a short system of my morals and belief in

these affairs. But the gentlemen of this country go upon a quite

different scheme of pleasure; the best furniture of their parlours,

instead of innocent china, are tall overgrown rummers; and they take

more care to enlarge their cellars, than their patrimonial estates. In

short, drinking is the hereditary sin of this country; and that hero of

a deputy here, that can demolish, at one sitting, the rest of his

brother envoys, is mentioned with as much applause as the Duke of Lorain

for his noble exploits against the Turks, and may claim a statue,

erected at the public expence, in any town in Germany.

"Judge, then, my lord, whether a person of my sober principles, and one

that only uses wine (as the wiser sort of Roman Catholics do images,) to

raise up my imagination to something more exalted, and not to terminate

my worship upon it, must not be reduced to very mortifying circumstances

in this place; where I cannot pretend to enjoy conversation, without

practising that vice that directly ruins it."]

[Footnote 43: This is the only mention that our author makes of the

"Rehearsal" in poetry: In prose he twice notices that satirical farce

with some contempt. The length of time which the Duke spent upon it, or

at least which elapsed between the first concoction and the

representation, is mentioned by Duke in his character of Villerius:

But with play-houses, wars, immortal wars,

He waged, and ten years rage produced a farce.

As many rolling years he did employ, }

And hands almost as many, to destroy }

Heroic rhyme, as Greece to ruin Troy. }

Once more, says fame, for battle he prepares,

And threatens rhymers with a second farce;

But if as long for this as that we stay,

He'll finish Cliveden sooner than his play.

The last line alludes to the magnificent structure at Cliveden, which

Buckingham planned, but never completed. Another satirist has the same

idea:

I come to his farce, which must needs well be done, }

For Troy was no longer before it was won, }

Since 'tis more than ten years since this farce was begun. }

]

EPISTLE THE TENTH.

TO

MR SOUTHERNE,

ON HIS COMEDY

CALLED

THE WIVES' EXCUSE,

ACTED IN 1692.

SOUTHERNE,--well known to the present age as a tragic writer, for his

Isabella has been ranked among the first-rate parts of our inimitable

Siddons,--was also distinguished by his contemporaries as a successful

candidate for the honours of the comic muse. Two of his comedies, "The

Mother in Fashion," and "Sir Anthony Love," had been represented with

success, when, in 1692, the "Wives' Excuse, or Cuckolds make

Themselves," was brought forward. The tone of that piece approaches what

we now call genteel comedy: but, whether owing to the flatness into

which such plays are apt to slide, for want of the _vis comica_ which

enlivens the more animated, though coarser, effusions of the lower

comedy, or to some strokes of satire directed against music meetings,

and other places of fashionable resort, "The Wives' Excuse" was

unfortunate in the representation. The author, in the dedication of the

printed play,[44] has hinted at the latter cause as that of his defeat;

and vindicates himself from the idea of reflecting upon music meetings,

or any other resort of the people of fashion, by urging, that although a

_billet doux_ is represented as being there delivered, "such a thing has

been done before now in a church, without the place being thought the

worse of." But Southerne consoles himself for the disapprobation of the

audience with the favour of Dryden, who, says he, "speaking of this

play, has publicly said, the town was kind to 'Sir Anthony Love;' I

needed them only to be just to this." And, after mentioning that Dryden

had intrusted to him, upon the credit of this play, the task of

completing "Cleomenes,"[45] he triumphantly adds,--"If modesty be

sometimes a weakness, what I say can hardly be a crime: in a fair

English trial, both parties are allowed to be heard; and without this

vanity of mentioning Mr Dryden, I had lost the best evidence of my

cause." Dryden, not satisfied with a verbal exertion of his patronage,

consoled his friend under his discomfiture, by addressing to him the

following Epistle, in which his failure is ascribed to the taste for

bustling intrigue, and for low and farcical humour.

It is not the Editor's business to trace Southerne's life, or poetical

career. He was born in the county of Dublin, in 1659; and produced, in

his twenty-third year, the tragedy of "The Loyal Brother," which Dryden

honoured with a prologue. On this occasion, Southerne's acquaintance

with our bard took place, under the whimsical circumstances mentioned

Vol. X. p. 372. The aged bard furnished also a prologue to Southerne's

"Disappointment, or Mother in Fashion;" and as he had repeatedly ushered

him to success, he presented him with the following lines to console him

under disappointment. The poets appear to have continued on the most

friendly terms until Dryden's death. Southerne survived him many years,

and lived to be praised by the rising generation of a second century,

for mildness of manners, and that cheerful and amiable disposition,

which rarely is found in old age, unless from the happy union of a body

at ease, and a conscience void of offence. When this dramatist was

sixty-five, his last play, called "Money the Mistress," was acted, with

a prologue by Welsted, containing the following beautiful lines:[46]

To you, ye fair, for patronage he sues;

O last defend, who first inspired his muse!

In your soft service he has past his days,

And gloried to be born for woman's praise:

Deprest at length, and in your cause decayed,

The good old man to beauty bends for aid;

That beauty, he has taught so oft to moan! }

That ne'er let Imoinda weep alone, }

And made his Isabella's griefs its own! }

Ere you arose to life, ye blooming train;

Ere time brought forth our pleasure and our pain;

He melted hearts, to monarchs' vows denied,

And softened to distress unconquered pride:

O! then protect, in his declining years,

The man, that filled your mother's eyes with tears!

The last of Charles's bards! The living name,

That rose, in that Augustan age, to fame!

And you, his brother authors, bravely dare

To join to-night the squadrons of the fair;

With zeal protect your veteran writer's page,

And save the drama's father, in his age:

Nor let the wreath from his grey head be torn,

For half a century with honour worn!

His merits let your tribe to mind recal;

Of some the patron, and the friend to all!

In him the poets' Nestor ye defend!

Great Otway's peer, and greater Dryden's friend.

Southerne, on his eighty-first birth day, was complimented with a copy

of verses by Pope; and on 26th May, 1746, he died at the advanced age of

eighty-five and upwards.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: To the honourable Thomas Wharton, Esq. comptroller of his

majesty's household.]

[Footnote 45: See the introductory remarks on that play, Vol. VIII.]

[Footnote 46: Welsted, "howe'er insulted by the spleen of Pope," was a

poet of merit. His fate is an instance, among a thousand, of the

disadvantage sustained by an inferior genius, who enters into collision

with one of supereminent talents. It is the combat of a gun-boat with a

frigate; and many an author has been run down in such an encounter, who,

had he avoided it, might have still enjoyed a fair portion of literary

reputation. The apologue of the iron and earthen pot contains a moral

applicable to such circumstances.]

EPISTLE THE TENTH.

Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain

To write, while these malignant planets reign.

Some very foolish influence rules the pit,

Not always kind to sense, or just to wit;

And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed,

To make us laugh, for never was more need.

Farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent;

But the gain smells not of the excrement.

The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,

With all her charms, bore but a single show;

But let a monster Muscovite appear,

He draws a crowded audience round the year.

May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit; }

Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit: }

So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ. }

Like his, thy thoughts are true, thy language clean;

Even lewdness is made moral in thy scene.[47]

The hearers may for want of Nokes[48] repine;

But rest secure, the readers will be thine.

Nor was thy laboured drama damned or hissed,

But with a kind civility dismissed;

With such good manners as the Wife[49] did use,

Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.

There was a glance at parting; such a look,

As bids thee not give o'er for one rebuke.

But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read,

Copy one living author, and one dead.

The standard of thy style let Etherege be;

For wit, the immortal spring of Wycherly.

Learn, after both, to draw some just design,

And the next age will learn to copy thine.

[Footnote 47: The moral of the "Wives' Excuse" is as bad as possible;

but the language of the play is free from that broad licence which

disgraces the dramatic taste of the age.]

[Footnote 48: Nokes was then famous for parts of low humour. Cibber thus

describes him: "This celebrated comedian was of the middle size, his

voice clear and audible, his natural countenance grave and sober; but

the moment he spoke, the settled seriousness of his features was utterly

discharged, and a dry, drolling, or laughing levity, took such full

possession of him, that I can only refer the idea of him to your

imagination. In some of his low characters, that became it, he had a

shuffling shamble in his gait, with so contented an ignorance in his

aspect, and an aukward absurdity in his gesture, that, had you not known

him, you could not have believed, that naturally he could have had a

grain of common sense." Our author insinuates, that the audience had

been so accustomed to the presence of this facetious actor, that they

could not tolerate a play where his low humour was excluded.]

[Footnote 49: Alluding to the character of Mrs Friendall in "The Wives'

Excuse."]

EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.

TO

HENRY HIGDEN, ESQ.

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF

THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.

HENRY HIGDEN was a member of the honourable society of the Middle

Temple, and during the reigns of James II. and William III. held some

rank among the wits of the age. He wrote a play called "Sir Noisy

Parrot, or the Wary Widow," represented in 1693, which seems to have

been most effectually damned; for in the preface the author complains,

that "the theatre was by faction transformed into a bear-garden,

hissing, mimicking, ridiculing, and cat-calling." I mention this

circumstance, because amongst the poetical friends who hastened to

condole with Mr Higden on the bad success of his piece, there is one who

attributes it to the influence of our author over the inferior wits at

Will's coffee-house.[50] But it seems more generally admitted, as the

cause of the downfall of the "Wary Widow," that the author being a man

of a convivial temper, had introduced too great a display of good eating

and drinking into his piece; and that the actors, although Mr Higden

complains of their general negligence, entered into these convivial

scenes with great zeal, and became finally incapable of proceeding in

their parts.[51] The prologue was written by Sir Charles Sedley, in

which the following lines seem to be levelled at Dryden's critical

prefaces:

But against old, as well as new, to rage,

Is the peculiar phrenzy of this age;

Shakespeare must down, and you must praise no more

Soft Desdemona, or the jealous Moor.

Shakespeare, whose fruitful genius, happy wit,

Was framed and finished at a lucky hit;

The pride of nature, and the shame of schools,

Born to create, and not to learn from rules,

Must please no more. His bastards now deride

Their father's nakedness, they ought to hide;

But when on spurs their Pegasus they force,

Their jaded muse is distanced in the course.

If the admirers of Dryden were active in the condemnation of Higden's

play, the offence probably lay in these verses.

It seems likely that Higden's translation, of the Tenth Satire of

Juvenal, which I have never seen, was printed before Dryden published

his own version, in 1693; consequently, before the damnation of

the "Wary Widow," acted in the same year, which seems to have been

attended with a quarrel between Dryden and the author. It is therefore

very probable, that this Epistle should have stood earlier in the

arrangement: but, having no positive evidence, the Editor has not

disturbed the former order.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 50:

From spawn of Will's, these wits of future tense,

He now appeals to men of riper sense;

And hopes to find some shelter from the wrath

Of furious critics of implicit faith;

Whose judgment always ebb, but zeal flows high,

Who for these truths upon the church rely.

Will's is the mother-church: From thence their creed,

And as that censures, poets must succeed.

Here the great patriarch of Parnassus sits,

And grants his bulls to the subordinate wits.

From this hot-bed with foplings we're opprest,

That crowd the boxes, and the pit infest;

Who their great master's falling spittle lick,

And at the neighbouring playhouse judge on tick.

Thus have I seen from some decaying oak,

A numerous toad-stool brood his moisture suck,

And as the reverend log his verdure sheds,

The fungous offspring flourishes and spreads.

_Verses prefixed to "Sir Noisy Parrot," 4to, 1693._

]

[Footnote 51: This circumstance is noticed by one of Higden's poetical

comforters:

Friend Harry, some squeamish pretenders to thinking,

Say, thy play is encumbered with eating and drinking;

That too oft, in conscience, thy table's brought out,

And unmerciful healths fly like hail-shot about.

Such a merry objection who ere could expect,

That does on the town or its pleasures reflect?

Is a treat and a bottle grown quite out of fashion,

Or have the spruce beaus found a new recreation?

At a tavern I'm certain they seldom find fault,

When flask after flask in due order is brought:

Why then should the fops be so monstrous uncivil,

As to damn at a play, what they like at the _Devil_?

Begging pardon of this apologist, who subscribes himself Tho. Palmer,

there is some difference between the satisfaction of eating a good

dinner at a tavern, and seeing one presented on the stage.]

EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.

The Grecian wits, who satire first began,

Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man;

At mighty villains, who the state opprest, }

They durst not rail, perhaps; they lashed, at least, }

And turned them out of office with a jest. }

No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand

The drolls to clap a bauble[52] in his hand.

Wise legislators never yet could draw

A fop within the reach of common law;

For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation,

Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.

Our last redress is dint of verse to try,

And satire is our court of chancery.

This way took Horace to reform an age,

Not bad enough to need an author's rage:

But yours,[53] who lived in more degenerate times,

Was forced to fasten deep, and worry crimes.

Yet you, my friend, have tempered him so well,

You make him smile in spite of all his zeal;

An art peculiar to yourself alone,

To join the virtues of two styles in one.

Oh! were your author's principle received, }

Half of the labouring world would be relieved; }

For not to wish is not to be deceived. }

Revenge would into charity be changed,

Because it costs too dear to be revenged;

It costs our quiet and content of mind,

And when 'tis compassed leaves a sting behind.

Suppose I had the better end o'the staff,

Why should I help the ill-natured world to laugh?

'Tis all alike to them, who get the day;

They love the spite and mischief of the fray.

No; I have cured myself of that disease;

Nor will I be provoked, but when I please:

But let me half that cure to you restore;

You give the salve, I laid it to the sore.

Our kind relief against a rainy day, }

Beyond a tavern, or a tedious play, }

We take your book, and laugh our spleen away. }

If all your tribe, too studious of debate,

Would cease false hopes and titles to create,

Led by the rare example you begun,

Clients would fail, and lawyers be undone.

[Footnote 52: A truncheon, with a fool's head and cap upon one end. It

was carried by the ancient jester, and is often alluded to in old

plays.]

[Footnote 53: Juvenal.]

EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND

MR CONGREVE,

ON HIS COMEDY

CALLED

THE DOUBLE DEALER.

This admirable Epistle is addressed to Congreve, whose rising genius had

early attracted our author's attention and patronage. When Congreve was

about to bring out "The Old Bachelor," the manuscript was put by

Southerne into Dryden's hands, who declared, that he had never seen such

a first play, and bestowed considerable pains in adapting it to the

stage. It was received with the most unbounded approbation. "The Double

Dealer" was acted in November 1693, but without that universal applause

which attended "The Old Bachelor." The plot was perhaps too serious, and

the villainy of Maskwell too black and hateful for comedy. It was the

opinion too of Dryden, that the fashionable world felt the satire too

keenly.[54] The play, however, cannot be said to have failed; for it

rose by degrees against opposition. The epistle is one of the most

elegant and apparently heart-felt effusions of friendship, that our

language boasts; and the progress of literature from the Restoration, is

described as Dryden alone could describe it. A critic of that day, whose

candour seems to have been on a level with his taste, has ventured to

insinuate, that _huffing Dryden_, as he prophanely calls our poet, had

purposely deluded Congreve into presumption, by his praise, in order

that he might lead him to make shipwreck of his popularity. But such

malevolent constructions have been always put upon the conduct of men of

genius, by the mean jealousy of the vulgar.[55]

[Footnote 54: Mr Malone quotes part of a letter from Dryden on the

subject of "The Double Dealer," and his own tragi-comedy of "Love

Triumphant." It is addressed to Mr Walsh, and runs thus:

"Congreve's 'Double Dealer' is much censured by the greater part of the

town, and is defended only by the best judges, who, you know, are

commonly the fewest. Yet it gains ground daily, and has already been

acted eight times. The women think he has exposed ----; and the gentlemen

are offended with him for the discovery of their follies, and the way of

their intrigue under the notions of friendship to their ladies'

husbands.

"I am afraid you discover not your own opinion concerning my irregular

use of tragi-comedy, in my _doppia favola_. I will never defend that

practice, for I know it distracts the hearers; but know withal, that it

has hitherto pleased them for the sake of variety, and for the

particular taste which they have to low comedy."]

[Footnote 55: "The first that was acted was Mr Congreve's, called 'The

Double Dealer.' It has fared with that play, as it generally does with

beauties officiously cried up; the mighty expectation which was raised

of it made it sink, even beneath its own merit. The character of the

Double Dealer is artfully writ; but the action being but single, and

confined within the rules of true comedy, it could not please the

generality of our audience, who relish nothing but variety, and think

any thing dull and heavy which does not border upon farce. The critics

were severe upon this play, which gave the author occasion to lash them

in his epistle dedicatory, in so defying or hectoring a style, that it

was counted rude even by his best friends; so that 'tis generally

thought he has done his business, and lost himself; a thing he owes to

Mr Dryden's treacherous friendship, who, being jealous of the applause

he had got by his 'Old Bachelor,' deluded him into a foolish imitation

of his own way of writing angry prefaces."--See MALONE'S _History of the

English Stage, prefaced to Shakespeare's Plays_.]

EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.

Well, then, the promised hour is come at last,

The present age of wit obscures the past:

Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,

Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit:

Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;

And thus, when Charles returned, our empire stood.

Like Janus, he the stubborn soil manured,

With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;

Tamed us to manners when the stage was rude,

And boisterous English wit with art endued.

Our age was cultivated thus at length;

But what we gained in skill we lost in strength.

Our builders were with want of genius curst;

The second temple was not like the first;

Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,

Our beauties equal, but excel our strength.

Firm Doric pillars found your solid base; }

The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space: }

Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. }

In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;

He moved the mind, but had not power to raise:

Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please;

Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.

In differing talents both adorned their age;

One for the study, t'other for the stage.

But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit.

In him all beauties of this age we see, }

Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity, }

The satire, wit, and strength, of manly Wycherly. }

All this in blooming youth you have atchieved;

Nor are your foiled contemporaries grieved.

So much the sweetness of your manners move,

We cannot envy you, because we love.

Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw

A beardless consul made against the law,

And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome,

Though he with Hannibal was overcome.

Thus old Romano bowed to Raphael's fame,

And scholar to the youth he taught became.

O that your brows my laurel had sustained!

Well had I been deposed, if you had reigned:

The father had descended for the son;

For only you are lineal to the throne.

Thus, when the state one Edward did depose,

A greater Edward in his room arose:

But now not I, but poetry, is cursed;

For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.[56]

But let them not mistake my patron's part,

Nor call his charity their own desert.

Yet this I prophecy,--Thou shalt be seen,

(Though with some short parenthesis between,)

High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,

Not mine,--that's little,--but thy laurel wear.[57]

Thy first attempt an early promise made;

That early promise this has more than paid.

So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,

That your least praise is to be regular.

Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought,

But genius must be born, and never can be taught.

This is your portion, this your native store; }

Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, }

To Shakespeare gave as much,--she could not give him more. }

Maintain your post; that's all the fame you need;

For 'tis impossible you should proceed.

Already I am worn with cares and age,

And just abandoning the ungrateful stage;

Unprofitably kept at heaven's expence,

I live a rent-charge on his providence:

But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,

Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

Be kind to my remains; and O defend,

Against your judgment, your departed friend!

Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,

But shade those laurels which descend to you:[58]

And take for tribute what these lines express;

You merit more, nor could my love do less.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 56: Shadwell, who, at the Revolution, was promoted to Dryden's

posts of poet-laureat, and royal historiographer, died in 1692: was

succeeded in his office of laureat by Nahum Tate, and in that of

historiographer by Thomas Rymer. Our author was at present on bad terms

with Rymer; to whom, not to Tate, he applies the sarcastic title of Tom

the Second. Yet his old co-adjutor, Nahum, is probably included in the

warning, that they should not mistake the Earl of Dorset's charity for

the recompense of their own merit. We have often remarked, that the Earl

of Dorset, although, as lord-chamberlain, he was obliged to dispose of

Dryden's offices to persons less politically obnoxious, bestowed at the

same time such marks of generosity on the abdicated laureat, that

Dryden, here, and elsewhere, honours him with the title of "his patron."

For the quarrel between Rymer and Dryden, see the Introduction to the

"Translations from Ovid's Metamorphoses," Vol. XII. p. 46. Rymer was an

useful antiquary, as his edition of the _Fœdera_ bears witness; but he

was a miserable critic, and a worse poet. His tragedy of "Edgar" is

probably alluded to in the Epistle as one of the productions of his

reign. It was printed in 1678; but appeared under the new title of "_The

English Monarch_," in 1691.]

[Footnote 57: It was augured by Southerne and by Higgons, that Congreve

would succeed to the literary empire exercised by Dryden. The former has

these lines addressed to the future monarch:

Dryden has long extended his command,

By right divine, quite through the Muses' land,

Absolute lord; and holding now from none

But great Apollo his undoubted crown,--

That empire settled, and grown old in power,--

Can wish for nothing but a successor;

Not to enlarge his limits, but maintain

Those provinces, which he alone could gain.

His eldest, Wycherley, in wise retreat,

Thought it not worth his quiet to be great;

Loose wandering Etherege, in wild pleasure tost,

And foreign interests, to his hopes long lost;

Poor Lee and Otway dead; Congreve appears

The darling and last comfort of his years.

May'st thou live long in thy great master's smiles,

And, growing under him, adorn these isles!

But when--when part of him, (but that be late!)

His body yielding, must submit to fate;

Leaving his deathless works, and thee, behind.

The natural successor of his mind,

Then may'st thou finish what he has begun;

Heir to his merit, be in fame his son!

In the same strain, Bevill Higgons:

What may'n't we then, great youth, of thee presage

Whose art and wit so much transcend thy age!

How wilt thou shine in thy meridian light,

Who, at thy rising, give so vast a light!

When Dryden, dying, shall the world deceive,

Whom we immortal as his works believe,

Thou shalt succeed, the glory of the stage,

Adorn and entertain the coming age.

]

[Footnote 58: Congreve discharged the sacred duty thus feelingly

imposed. See his Preface to Dryden's Plays, Vol. II. p. 7.]

EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH.

TO

MR GRANVILLE,

ON HIS EXCELLENT TRAGEDY,

CALLED

HEROIC LOVE.

George Granville, afterwards Lord Lansdowne of Biddiford, was

distinguished, by the friendship of Dryden and Pope, from the mob of

gentlemen who wrote with ease. He copied Waller, a model perhaps chosen

from a judicious consideration of his own powers. His best piece is his

"Essay on unnatural Flights in Poetry," in which he elegantly apologizes

for Dryden having suffered his judgment to be swayed by a wild audience.

Granville's play of the "Heroic Love, or the cruel Separation," was

acted in 1698 with great applause. It is a mythological drama on the

love of Agamemnon and Briseis; and this being said, it is hardly

necessary to add, that it now scarcely bears reading. Granville's

unshaken attachment to Tory principles, as well as his excellent private

character, probably gained him favour in our poet's eyes. Lord Lansdowne

(for such became Granville's title when Queen Anne created twelve peers

to secure a majority to ministry in the House of Lords) died on the 30th

January, 1735.

EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH.

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,

How could I envy, what I must commend!

But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,

That youth should reign, and withering age submit,

With less regret those laurels I resign,

Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.

With better grace an ancient chief may yield

The long contended honours of the field,

Than venture all his fortune at a cast,

And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.

Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,

Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:

Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,

Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.

Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age

Can best, if any can, support the stage;

Which so declines, that shortly we may see

Players and plays reduced to second infancy:

Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,

They plot not on the stage, but on the town,

And, in despair their empty pit to fill,

Set up some foreign monster in a bill.

Thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving,

And murdering plays, which they miscal reviving.[59]

Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes conveyed;

Scarce can a poet know the play he made,

'Tis so disguised in death; nor thinks 'tis he

That suffers in the mangled tragedy.

Thus Itys first was killed, and after dressed

For his own sire, the chief invited guest.

I say not this of thy successful scenes,

Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.

With length of time, much judgment, and more toil,

Not ill they acted what they could not spoil.

Their setting-sun still shoots a glimmering ray,

Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay;

And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,

Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast.

This difference yet the judging world will see;

Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 59: These sarcasms are levelled at the players; one of whom,

George Powel, took it upon him to retort in the following very singular

strain of effrontery, which Mr Malone transfers from the preface of a

tragedy; called "The Fatal Discovery, or Love in Ruins," published in

4to, 1698.

"Here I am afraid he makes but a coarse compliment, when this great wit,

with his treacherous memory, forgets, that he had given away his laurels

upon record twice before, viz. once to Mr Congreve, and another time to

Mr Southerne. Pr'ythee, old Œdipus, expound this mystery! Dost thou set

up thy transubstantiation miracle in the donation of thy idol bays, that

thou hast them fresh, new, and whole, to give them three times over?

"For the most mortal stroke at us, he charges us with downright

_murdering of plays, which we call reviving_. I will not derogate from

the merit of those senior actors of both sexes, of the other house, that

shine in their several perfections, in whose lavish praises he is so

highly transported; but, at the same time, he makes himself but an

arbitrary judge on our side, to condemn unheard, and that under no less

a conviction than murder, when I cannot learn, for a fair judgment upon

us, that his reverend crutches have ever brought him within our doors

since the division of the companies [1695]. 'Tis true, I think, we have

revived some pieces of Dryden, as his "Sebastian," "Maiden Queen,"

"Marriage A-la-Mode," "King Arthur," &c. But here let us be tried by a

Christian jury, the audience, and not receive the bow-string from his

Mahometan Grand Signiorship. 'Tis true, his more particular pique

against us, as he has declared himself, is in relation to our reviving

his "Almanzor." There, indeed, he has reason to be angry for our waking

that sleepy dowdy, and exposing his nonsense, not ours; and if that dish

did not please him, we have a Scotch proverb for our justification, viz.

_'twas rotten roasted, because_, &c. and the world must expect, 'twas

very hard crutching up what Hart and Mohun before us could not prop. I

confess, he is a little severe, when he will allow our best performance

to bear no better fruit than a crab vintage. Indeed, if we young actors

spoke but half as sourly as his old gall scribbles, we should be crab

all over."]

EPISTLE THE FOURTEENTH.

TO MY FRIEND

MR MOTTEUX,

ON HIS TRAGEDY

CALLED

BEAUTY IN DISTRESS,

PUBLISHED IN 1698.

Peter Anthony Motteux was a French Huguenot, born at Rohan, in Normandy,

in l660. He emigrated upon the revocation of the edict of Nantz; and

having friends in England of opulence and respectability, he became a

merchant and bookseller of some eminence; besides enjoying a place in

the Post-office, to which his skill as a linguist recommended him. This

must have been considerable, if we judge by his proficiency in the

language of England, certainly not the most easy to be commanded by a

foreigner. Nevertheless, Motteux understood it so completely, as not

only to write many occasional pieces of English poetry, but to execute a

very good translation of "Don Quixote," and compose no less than fifteen

plays, several of which were very well received. He also conducted the

"Gentleman's Journal." On the 19th February, 1717-18, this author was

found dead in a house of bad fame, in the parish of St Clement Danes,

not without suspicion of murder.

Motteux appears to have enjoyed the countenance of Dryden, who, in the

following verses, consoles him under the censure of those who imputed to

his play of "Beauty in Distress" an irregularity of plot, and

complication of incident. But the preliminary and more important part of

the verses regards Jeremy Collier's violent attack upon the dramatic

authors of the age for immorality and indecency. To this charge, our

author, on this as on other occasions, seems to plead guilty, while he

deprecates the virulence, and sometimes unfair severity of his

adversary. The reader may compare the poetical defence here set up with

that in the prose dedication to the "Fables," and he will find in both

the same grumbling, though subdued, acquiescence under the chastisement

of the moralist; the poet much resembling an over-matched general, who

is unwilling to surrender, though conscious of his inability to make an

effectual resistance. See also Vol. VIII. p. 462.

EPISTLE THE FOURTEENTH.

'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,

As damns not only poets, but the stage.

That sacred art, by heaven itself infused,

Which Moses, David, Solomon, have used,

Is now to be no more: the Muses' foes

Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.

Were they content to prune the lavish vine

Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,

Who, but a madman, would his thoughts defend?

All would submit; for all but fools will mend.

But when to common sense they give the lie,

And turn distorted words to blasphemy,

They give the scandal; and the wise discern,

Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.

What I have loosely, or prophanely, writ,

Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:

Nor, when accused by me, let them complain;

Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.[60]

Rebellion, worse than witchcraft, they pursued;

The pulpit preached the crime, the people rued.

The stage was silenced; for the saints would see

In fields performed their plotted tragedy.

But let us first reform, and then so live,

That we may teach our teachers to forgive;

Our desk be placed below their lofty chairs,

Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.

The moral part, at least we may divide,

Humility reward, and punish pride;

Ambition, interest, avarice, accuse;

These are the province of a tragic muse.

These hast thou chosen; and the public voice

Has equalled thy performance with thy choice.

Time, action, place, are so preserved by thee, }

That e'en Corneille might with envy see }

The alliance of his tripled unity. }

Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown,

But too much plenty is thy fault alone.

At least but two can that good crime commit,

Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.

Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare,

Contented to be thinly regular:

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil

With more increase rewards thy happy toil.

Their tongue, enfeebled, is refined too much,

And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch.

Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,

More fit for manly thought, and strengthened with allay.

But whence art thou inspired, and thou alone,

To flourish in an idiom not thy own?

It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest

Should overmatch the most, and match the best.

In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;

Here find the first deficience of our tongue:

Words, once my stock, are wanting, to commend

So great a poet, and so good a friend.

[Footnote 60: The poet here endeavours to vindicate himself from the

charge of having often, and designedly, ridiculed the clerical

function.]

EPISTLE THE FIFTEENTH.

TO MY HONOURED KINSMAN

JOHN DRIDEN,

OF

CHESTERTON, IN THE COUNTY OF

HUNTINGDON, ESQ.

The person to whom this epistle is addressed was Dryden's first cousin;

being the second son of Sir John Driden, elder brother of the poet's

father Erasmus. He derived from his maternal grandfather, Sir Robert

Bevile, the valuable estate of Chesterton, near Stilton, where latterly

our author frequently visited him, and where it is said he wrote the

first four verses of his Virgil with a diamond on a glass pane. The

mansion-house is at this time (spring, 1807,) about to be pulled down,

and the materials sold. The life of Mr John Driden, for he retained the

ancient spelling of the name, seems to have been that of an opulent and

respectable country gentleman, more happy, perhaps, in the quiet

enjoyment of a large landed property, than his cousin in possession of

his brilliant poetical genius. He represented the county of Huntingdon

in parliament, in 1690, and from 1700 till his death in 1707-8.

The panegyric of our author is an instance, among a thousand, how genius

can gild what it touches; for the praise of this lofty rhyme, when

minutely examined, details the qualities of that very ordinary, though

very useful and respectable, character, a wealthy and sensible country

squire. "Just, good, and wise," contending neighbours referred their

disputes to his decision; in humble prose, he was an active justice of

peace. That he was hospitable, and kept a good pack of hounds, was a

fox-hunter while young, and now followed beagles or harriers, that he

represented his county, and voted against ministry, sums up his

excellencies; for I will not follow my author, by numbering among them

his living and dying a bachelor.[61] Yet these annals, however simple

and vulgar, illuminated by the touch of our author's pen, shine like the

clouds under the influence of a setting sun. The greatest illustration

of our author's genius is, that the praise, though unusually applied, is

appropriate, and hardly exaggerated; we lay down the book, and recollect

to how little this laboured character amounts; and when we resume it,

are again hurried away by the magic of the poet. But in this epistle,

besides the compliment to his cousin, Dryden had a further intention in

view, which was, to illustrate the character of a good English member of

Parliament, whom, in conformity with his own prejudice, he represents as

inclining to oppose the ministry. It was coincidence in this sentiment

which had done much to reconcile Dryden and his cousin; and thus

politics reunited relations, whom political disputes had long parted. At

this time we learn from one of our author's letters, that Mr Dryden of

Chesterton, although upon different principles, was in as warm

opposition as his cousin could have wished him.[62] Our poet, however,

who had felt the hand of power, did not venture on this portrait without

such an explanation to Charles Montague, afterwards Lord Halifax, as he

thought sufficient to avert any risk of misconstruction.[63]

There has not been found any early edition of this epistle separate from

the volume of Fables; of which therefore it probably made an original

part, and was first published with them in 1700. It supplies one

instance among many, that the poet's lamp burned clear to the close of

life. It is said that his cousin acknowledged the honour done him by the

poet, by a handsome gratuity. The amount has been alleged to be five

hundred pounds, which is probably exaggerated. Mr Driden of Chesterton

bequeathed that sum to Charles Dryden, the poet's son, who did not live

to profit by the legacy. As the report of the present to Dryden himself

depends only on tradition,[64] it is possible the two circumstances may

have been more or less confounded together.

The reader may be pleased to see the epitaph of John Driden of

Chesterton, which concludes with some lines from this epistle. It is in

the church of the village of Chesterton:

_M.S._

JOHANNIS DRIDEN, _Arm.

F. Natu secundi Johannis Driden

de Canons Ashby in agro Northampton Bart.

ex Honorâ F. et cohærede, e tribus unâ,

Roberti Bevile, Bart.

unde sortem maternam

in hâc viciniâ de Chesterton et Haddon

adeptus,

prædia dein latè,

per comitatum Huntington

adjecit;

nec sui profusus nec alieni appetens:

A litibus ipse abhorrens,

Et qui aliorum lites

Æquissimo sæpe arbitrio diremit,

Vivus,

adeo Amicitiam minimè fucatam coluit,

et publicam Patriæ salutem asseruit strenuè,

ut illa vicissim Eum summis quibus potuit

Honoribus cumulârit;

lubens sæpiusq. Senatorem voluerit:

vel moriens,

honorum atq. beneficiorum non immemor,

maximè vero Religiosæ charitatis interitu,

largam sui censûs partem_

_ad valorem 16 Millium plus minus Librarum,

vel in locis ubi res et commercium,

vel inter familiares quibus necessitudo

cum eo vivo intercesserat,

erogavit

Marmor hoc P.

Nepos et Hæres Viri multum desiderati

Robertus Pigott, Arm.

Obiit Cœlebs 3 Non. Jan. Anno Dom. 1707, Æt. 72._

JUST, GOOD, AND WISE, CONTENDING NEIGHBOURS COME, }

FROM YOUR AWARD TO WAIT THEIR FINAL DOOM; }

AND, FOES BEFORE, RETURN IN FRIENDSHIP HOME. }

WITHOUT THEIR COST, YOU TERMINATE THE CAUSE,

AND SAVE THE EXPENCE OF LONG LITIGIOUS LAWS;

WHERE SUITS ARE TRAVERSED, AND SO LITTLE WON,

THAT HE WHO CONQUERS IS BUT LAST UNDONE.

Vide p. 75.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 61: There is a report admitted into the "Baronetage," that

this gentleman and his three brothers took upon them a vow to die

unmarried; and it must be owned, that the praises of our author, on the

score of celibacy, argue his cousin to have been a most obstinate and

obdurate old bachelor. But Mr Malone produces the evidence of an old

lady descended of the family, in disproof of this ungallant

anecdote.--See _Baronetage_, Vol. II. p. 92. MALONE'S _Life of Dryden_,

p. 324.]

[Footnote 62: "'Tis thought the king will endeavour to keep up a

standing army, and make the stir in Scotland his pretence for it: My

cousin Dryden, and the country party, will, I suppose, be against it;

for when a spirit is raised, 'tis hard conjuring him down again."]

[Footnote 63: "In the description which I have made of a Parliament-man,

I think I have not only drawn the features of my worthy kinsman, but

have also given my own opinion of what an Englishman in Parliament ought

to be; and deliver it as a memorial of my own principles to all

posterity. I have consulted the judgment of my unbiassed friends, who

have some of them the honour to be known to you; and they think there is

nothing which can justly give offence in that part of the poem. I say

not this, to cast a blind on your judgement, (which I could not do if I

endeavoured it,) but to assure you, that nothing relating to the public

shall stand without your permission; for it were to want common sense to

desire your patronage, and resolve to disoblige you: And as I will not

hazard my hopes of your protection, by refusing to obey you in any thing

which I can perform with my conscience, or my honour, so I am very

confident you will never impose any other terms on me."--_Letter to the

Honourable Charles Montague._]

[Footnote 64: In the family of Pigott, descended from John Dryden of

Chesterton.]

EPISTLE THE FIFTEENTH.

How blessed is he, who leads a country life,

Unvexed with anxious cares, and void of strife!

Who, studying peace, and shunning civil rage,

Enjoyed his youth, and now enjoys his age:

All who deserve his love, he makes his own;

And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.

Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come, }

From your award to wait their final doom; }

And, foes before, return in friendship home. }

Without their cost, you terminate the cause,

And save the expence of long litigious laws;

Where suits are traversed, and so little won,

That he who conquers is but last undone:

Such are not your decrees; but so designed, }

The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind; }

Like your own soul, serene, a pattern of your mind. }

Promoting concord, and composing strife,

Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife;

Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night,

Long penitence succeeds a short delight:

Minds are so hardly matched, that even the first,

Though paired by heaven, in Paradise were cursed.

For man and woman, though in one they grow,

Yet, first or last, return again to two.

He to God's image, she to his was made;

So, farther from the fount the stream at random strayed.

How could he stand, when, put to double pain,

He must a weaker than himself sustain!

Each might have stood perhaps, but each alone;

Two wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my verse would blemish all the fair; }

But yet if some be bad, 'tis wisdom to beware, }

And better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare. }

Thus have you shunned, and shun the married state,

Trusting as little as you can to fate.

No porter guards the passage of your door,

To admit the wealthy, and exclude the poor;

For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart,

To sanctify the whole, by giving part;

Heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has wrought,

And to the second son a blessing brought;

The first-begotten had his father's share;

But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's heir.[65]

So may your stores and fruitful fields increase;

And ever be you blessed, who live to bless.

As Ceres sowed, where-e'er her chariot flew;

As heaven in deserts rained the bread of dew;

So free to many, to relations most,

You feed with manna your own Israel host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race,

You seek the champaign sports, or sylvan chace;

With well-breathed beagles you surround the wood,

Even then industrious of the common good;

And often have you brought the wily fox

To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks;

Chased even amid the folds, and made to bleed,

Like felons, where they did the murderous deed.

This fiery game your active youth maintained;

Not yet by years extinguished, though restrained:

You season still with sports your serious hours;

For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours.

The hare in pastures or in plains is found,

Emblem of human life; who runs the round,

And, after all his wandering ways are done, }

His circle fills, and ends where he begun, }

Just as the setting meets the rising sun. }

Thus princes ease their cares; but happier he,

Who seeks not pleasure through necessity,

Than such as once on slippery thrones were placed,

And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chased.

So lived our sires, ere doctors learned to kill,

And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.

The first physicians by debauch were made;

Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade.

Pity the generous kind their cares bestow

To search forbidden truths, (a sin to know,)

To which if human science could attain,

The doom of death, pronounced by God, were vain.

In vain the leech would interpose delay;

Fate fastens first, and vindicates the prey.

What help from art's endeavours can we have? }

Guibbons[66] but guesses, nor is sure to save; }

But Maurus[67] sweeps whole parishes, and peoples every grave; }

And no more mercy to mankind will use,

Than when he robbed and murdered Maro's muse.

Would'st thou be soon dispatched, and perish whole,

Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourne with thy soul.[68]

By chace our long-lived fathers earned their food;

Toil strung the nerves, and purified the blood:

But we their sons, a pampered race of men,

Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.

Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought,

Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.

The wise, for care, on exercise depend;

God never made his work for man to mend.

The tree of knowledge, once in Eden placed,

Was easy found, but was forbid the taste:

O had our grandsire walked without his wife,

He first had sought the better plant of life!

Now both are lost: yet, wandering in the dark,

Physicians, for the tree, have found the bark;

They, labouring for relief of human kind, }

With sharpened sight some remedies may find; }

The apothecary-train is wholly blind. }

From files a random recipe they take,

And many deaths of one prescription make.

Garth,[69] generous as his muse, prescribes and gives;

The shopman sells, and by destruction lives:

Ungrateful tribe! who, like the viper's brood,

From Med'cine issuing, suck their mother's blood!

Let these obey, and let the learned prescribe,

That men may die without a double bribe;

Let them, but under their superiors, kill,

When doctors first have signed the bloody bill;

He 'scapes the best, who, nature to repair,

Draws physic from the fields, in draughts of vital air.

You hoard not health for your own private use,

But on the public spend the rich produce.

When, often urged, unwilling to be great,

Your country calls you from your loved retreat,

And sends to senates, charged with common care,

Which none more shuns, and none can better bear:

Where could they find another formed so fit,

To poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit?

Were these both wanting, as they both abound,

Where could so firm integrity be found?

Well born, and wealthy, wanting no support,

You steer betwixt the country and the court;

Nor gratify whate'er the great desire,

Nor grudging give, what public needs require.

Part must be left, a fund when foes invade,

And part employed to roll the watery trade;

Even Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil,

Required a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil.

Good senators (and such as you) so give,

That kings may be supplied, the people thrive:

And he, when want requires, is truly wise, }

Who slights not foreign aids, nor overbuys, }

But on our native strength, in time of need, relies. }

Munster was bought, we boast not the success;

Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace.

Our foes, compelled by need, have peace embraced;[70]

The peace both parties want, is like to last;

Which if secure, securely we may trade;

Or, not secure, should never have been made.

Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,

The sea is ours, and that defends the land.

Be, then, the naval stores the nation's care,

New ships to build, and battered to repair.

Observe the war, in every annual course;

What has been done, was done with British force:

Namur subdued, is England's palm alone;

The rest besieged, but we constrained the town:[71]

We saw the event that followed our success;

France, though pretending arms, pursued the peace,

Obliged, by one sole treaty, to restore

What twenty years of war had won before.

Enough for Europe has our Albion fought;

Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.

When once the Persian king was put to flight,

The weary Macedons refused to fight;

Themselves their own mortality confessed,

And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.

Even victors are by victories undone; }

Thus Hannibal, with foreign laurels won, }

To Carthage was recalled, too late to keep his own. }

While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,

Why should we tempt the doubtful dye again?

In wars renewed, uncertain of success;

Sure of a share, as umpires of the peace.

A patriot both the king and country serves;

Prerogative and privilege preserves:

Of each our laws the certain limit show;

One must not ebb, nor t'other overflow:

Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand, }

The barriers of the state on either hand; }

May neither overflow, for then they drown the land. }

When both are full, they feed our blessed abode;

Like those that watered once the paradise of God.

Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share;

In peace the people, and the prince in war:

Consuls of moderate power in calms were made;

When the Gauls came, one sole dictator swayed.

Patriots, in peace, assert the people's right,

With noble stubbornness resisting might;

No lawless mandates from the court receive,

Nor lend by force, but in a body give.

Such was your generous grandsire; free to grant

In parliaments, that weighed their prince's want:

But so tenacious of the common cause,

As not to lend the king against his laws;

And, in a loathsome dungeon doomed to lie, }

In bonds retained his birthright liberty, }

And shamed oppression, till it set him free.[72] }

O true descendant of a patriot line,

Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them thine.

Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see;

'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee;

The beauties to the original I owe,

Which when I miss, my own defects I show:

Nor think the kindred muses thy disgrace;

A poet is not born in every race.

Two of a house few ages can afford,

One to perform, another to record.[73]

Praise-worthy actions are by thee embraced,

And 'tis my praise to make thy praises last.

For even when death dissolves our human frame, }

The soul returns to heaven from whence it came; }

Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 65: Sir Robert Driden inherited the paternal estate of

Canon-Ashby, while that of Chesterton descended to John, his second

brother, to whom the epistle is addressed, through his mother, daughter

of Sir Robert Bevile.]

[Footnote 66: William Guibbons, M.D.--Dryden mentions this gentleman in

terms of grateful acknowledgment in the Postscript to Virgil:--"That I

have recovered, in some measure, the health which I had lost by

application to this work, is owing, next to God's mercy, to the skill

and care of Dr Guibbons and Dr Hobbs, the two ornaments of their

profession, which I can only pay by this acknowledgment." As Dr Guibbons

was an enemy to the Dispensary, he is ridiculed by Garth in his poem so

entitled, under the character of "Mirmillo the famed _Opifer_."]

[Footnote 67: Sir Richard Blackmore, poet and physician, whose offences

towards our author have been enumerated in a note on the prologue to

"The Pilgrim," where his character is discussed at length under the same

name of Maurus. See Vol. VIII. p. 442, and also the Postscript to

Virgil, where Dryden acknowledges his obligations to the Faculty, and

adds, in allusion to Blackmore, that "the only one of them, who

endeavoured to defame him, had it not in his power."]

[Footnote 68: In this line, as in the end of the preface to the

"Fables," our author classes together "one Milbourne and one Blackmore."

The former was a clergyman, and beneficed at Yarmouth. Dryden, in the

preface just quoted, insinuates, that he lost his living for writing

libels on his parishioners. These passing strokes of satire in the text

are amply merited by the virulence of Milbourne's attack, not only on

our author's poetry, but on his person, and principles political and

religious. See a note on the preface to the "Fables," near the end.]

[Footnote 69: Sir Samuel Garth, the ingenious author of the

"Dispensary." Although this celebrated wit and physician differed widely

from Dryden in politics, being a violent Whig, they seem, nevertheless,

to have lived in the most intimate terms. Dryden contributed to Garth's

translation of the "Metamorphoses;" and Sir Samuel had the honour to

superintend the funeral of our poet, and to pronounce a Latin oration

upon that occasion. Garth's generosity, here celebrated, consisted in

maintaining a Dispensary for issuing advice and medicines gratis to the

poor. This was highly disapproved of by the more selfish of his

brethren, and their disputes led to Sir Samuel's humorous poem.]

[Footnote 70: A very bloody war had been recently concluded by the peace

of Ryswick, in 1697. But the country party in Parliament entertained

violent suspicions, that King William, whose continental connections

they dreaded, intended a speedy renewal of the contest with France.

Hence they were jealous of every attempt to maintain any military force;

so that, in 1699, William saw himself compelled, not only to disband the

standing army, but to dismiss his faithful and favourite Dutch guards.

The subsequent lines point obliquely at these measures, which were now

matter of public discussion. Dryden's cousin joined in them with many of

the Whigs, who were attached to what was called the country-party. As

for the poet, his jacobitical principles assented to every thing which

could embarrass King William. But, for the reasons which he has assigned

in his letter to Lord Montague, our author leaves his opinion concerning

the disbanding of the army to be inferred from his panegyric on the

navy, and his declamation against the renewal of the war.]

[Footnote 71: Our poet had originally accompanied his praises of the

British soldiers with some aspersions on the cowardice of the Dutch,

their allies. These he omitted at his cousin's desire, who deemed them

disrespectful to King William. In short, he complains he had corrected

his verses so far, that he feared he had purged the spirit out of them;

as Bushby used to whip a boy so long, till he made him a confirmed

blockhead.]

[Footnote 72: Sir Robert Bevile, maternal grandfather to John Driden of

Chesterton, seems to have been imprisoned for resisting some of Charles

I.'s illegal attempts to raise supplies without the authority of

parliament. Perhaps our author now viewed his opposition to the royal

will as more excusable than he would have thought it in the reigns of

Charles II. or of James II. It is thought, that the hard usage which Sir

Robert Bevile met on this score, decided our poet's uncle, his

son-in-law, in his violent attachment to Cromwell.]

[Footnote 73: The reader will perhaps doubt, whether Mr Dryden's account

of his cousin Chesterton's accomplishments as a justice of peace,

fox-hunter, and knight of the shire, even including his prudent

abstinence from matrimony, were quite sufficient to justify this

classification.]

EPISTLE THE SIXTEENTH.

TO

SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

PRINCIPAL PAINTER TO

HIS MAJESTY.

The well-known Sir Godfrey Kneller was a native of Lubec, but settled in

London about 1674. He was a man of genius; but, according to Walpole, he

lessened his reputation, by making it subservient to his fortune. No

painter was more distinguished by the great, for ten sovereigns sate to

him. What may tend longer to preserve his reputation, no painter ever

received more incense from the praise of poets. Dryden, Pope, Addison,

Prior, Tickell, Steele, all wrote verses to him in the tone of

extravagant eulogy. Those addressed to Kneller by Addison, in which the

series of the heathen deities is, with unexampled happiness, made to

correspond with that of the British monarchs painted by the artist, are

not only the best production of that elegant poet, but of their kind the

most felicitous ever written. Sir Godfrey Kneller died 27th November,

1723.

Dryden seems to have addressed the following epistle to Sir Godfrey

Kneller, as an acknowledgment for the copy of the Chandos' portrait of

Shakespeare, mentioned in the verses. It would appear that, upon other

occasions, Sir Godfrey repaid the tributes of the poets, by the

productions of his pencil.

There is great luxuriance and richness of idea and imagery in the

epistle.

EPISTLE THE SIXTEENTH.

Once I beheld the fairest of her kind,

And still the sweet idea charms my mind:

True, she was dumb; for nature gazed so long,

Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;

But, smiling, said--She still shall gain the prize;

I only have transferred it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller, such thy skill,

That nature seems obedient to thy will;

Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught,

Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we }

Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree, }

We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see. }

Shadows are but privations of the light;

Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;

With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;

Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.

Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife;

And from their animated canvas came,

Demanding souls, and loosened from the frame.

Prometheus, were he here, would cast away

His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;

And either would thy noble work inspire,

Or think it warm enough, without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;

This is the least attendant on thy praise:

From hence the rudiments of art began;

A coal, or chalk, first imitated man:

Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,

Gave outlines to the rude original;

Ere canvas yet was strained, before the grace }

Of blended colours found their use and place, }

Or cypress tablets first received a face. }

By slow degrees the godlike art advanced;

As man grew polished, picture was enhanced:

Greece added posture, shade, and perspective,

And then the mimic piece began to live.

Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,

But all came forward in one common view:

No point of light was known, no bounds of art;

When light was there, it knew not to depart,

But glaring on remoter objects played;

Not languished and insensibly decayed.[74]

Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive,

And with old Greece unequally did strive;

Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race,

Did all the matchless monuments deface.

Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,

And rhyme began to enervate poetry.

Thus, in a stupid military state,

The pen and pencil find an equal fate.

Flat faces, such as would disgrace a skreen,

Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,

Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight

Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep,

A heavy sabbath did supinely keep;

At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,

Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.

Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line;

One coloured best, and one did best design.

Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,

But Titian's painting looked like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,

Postures unforced, and lively colours join,

Likeness is ever there; but still the best,

(Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest,)

Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.

Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought;

Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;[75]

With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;

With reverence look on his majestic face;

Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.

His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,

And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight;

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast

Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.

Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost;

When most they rail, know then, they envy most.

In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,

Like women's anger, impotent and loud.

While they their barren industry deplore,

Pass on secure, and mind the goal before,

Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,

Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.

Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth,

For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth:

But oh, the painter muse, though last in place,

Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race.

Apelles' art an Alexander found, }

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound; }

But Homer was with barren laurel crowned. }

Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;

But pass we that unpleasing image by.

Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,

All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.

A graceful truth thy pencil can command;

The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.

Likeness appears in every lineament,

But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true resemblance bears,

A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.

So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,

Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.

Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still, }

When on wild nature we ingraft our skill, }

Yet not creating beauties at our will. }

But poets are confined in narrower space,

To speak the language of their native place;

The painter widely stretches his command,

Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.

From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,

Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.

All nations all immunities will give }

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; }

And not seven cities, but the world, would strive. }

Sure some propitious planet then did smile,

When first you were conducted to this isle;

Our genius brought you here, to enlarge our fame,

For your good stars are every where the same.

Thy matchless hand, of every region free,

Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

[76]Great Rome and Venice early did impart

To thee the examples of their wonderous art.

Those masters, then but seen, not understood,

With generous emulation fired thy blood;

For what in nature's dawn the child admired,

The youth endeavoured, and the man acquired.

If yet thou hast not reached their high degree,

'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.

Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine, }

Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design }

A more exalted work, and more divine. }

For what a song, or senseless opera,

Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,

Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live;

Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;

And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:

Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool;[77]

But so his follies in thy posture sink,

The senseless idiot seems at last to think.

Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain,

To wish their vile resemblance may remain,

And stand recorded, at their own request,

To future days, a libel or a jest!

Else should we see your noble pencil trace

Our unities of action, time, and place;

A whole composed of parts, and those the best,

With every various character exprest;

Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;

Less, and at distance, an ignoble crew;

While all the figures in one action join,

As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest,

But venerable age shall add the rest:

For time shall with his ready pencil stand,

Retouch your figures with his ripening hand,

Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint,

Add every grace, which time alone can grant;

To future ages shall your fame convey,

And give more beauties than he takes away.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 74: The ancients did not understand perspective; accordingly

their figures represent those on an Indian paper. It seems long before

it was known in England; for so late as 1634, Sir John Harrington

thought it necessary to give the following explanation, in the

advertisement to his translation of _Orlando Furioso_.

"The use of the picture is evident;--that, having read over the book,

they may read it as it were again in the very picture; and one thing is

to be noted, which every one haply will not observe, namely, the

perspective in every figure. For the personages of men, the shapes of

horses, and such like, are made large at the bottom, and lesser upward,

as if you were to behold all the same in a plain, that which is nearest

seems greatest, and the farthest shews smallest, which is the chief art

in picture."]

[Footnote 75: This portrait was copied from one in the possession of Mr

Betterton, and afterwards in that of the Chandos family. Twelve

engravings were executed from this painting, which, however, the

ingenious Mr Stevens, and other commentators on Shakespeare, pronounced

a forgery. The copy presented by Kneller to Dryden, is in the collection

of Earl Fitzwilliam, at Wentworth-house; and may claim that veneration,

from having been the object of our author's respect and enthusiasm,

which has been denied to its original, as a genuine portrait of

Shakespeare. It is not, however, an admitted point, that the Chandos

picture is a forgery: the contrary has been keenly maintained; and Mr

Malone's opinion has given weight to those who have espoused its

defence.]

[Footnote 76: He travelled very young into Italy. DRYDEN.]

[Footnote 77: Mr Walpole says, that "where Sir Godfrey offered one

picture to fame, he sacrificed twenty to lucre; and he met with

customers of so little judgment, that they were fond of being painted by

a man who would gladly have disowned his works the moment they were paid

for." The same author gives us Sir Godfrey's apology for preferring the

lucrative, though less honourable, line of portrait painting. "Painters

of history," said he, "make the dead live, and do not begin to live

themselves till they are dead. I paint the living, and they make me

live."--_Lord_ ORFORD'S _Lives of the Painters_. See his _Works_, Vol.

III. p. 359. Dryden seems to allude to this expression in the above

lines.]

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

UPON THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS.

The subject of this elegy was Henry Lord Hastings, eldest son of

Ferdinando Earl of Huntingdon. He was born 16th January, 1630, and died

24th June, 1649. He was buried at Ashby de la Zouche, near the superb

family-seat of Donnington-Castle. This Lord Hastings, says Collins, was

a nobleman of great learning, and of so sweet a disposition, that no

less than ninety-eight elegies were made on him, and published in 1650,

under this title: "_Lachrymæ Musarum_, the Tears of the Muses expressed

in Elegies written by divers Persons of nobility and worth, upon the

Death of the most hopeful Henry, Lord Hastings, eldest son of the Right

Honourable Ferdinando, Earl of Huntingdon, then general of the high-born

Prince George, Duke of Clarence, brother to King Edward IV."

This accomplished young nobleman died unmarried; but, from the

concluding lines of the elegy, it is obvious, that he had been betrothed

to the "virgin widow," whom the poet there addresses, but whose name I

have been unable to learn.

The poem was written by Dryden while at Westminster-school, and displays

little or no promise of future excellence; being a servile imitation of

the conceits of Cleveland, and the metaphysical wit of Cowley, exerted

in numbers hardly more harmonious than those of Donne.

UPON

THE DEATH

OF

LORD HASTINGS.

Must noble Hastings immaturely die,

The honour of his ancient family,

Beauty and learning thus together meet,

To bring a winding for a wedding-sheet?

Must virtue prove death's harbinger? must she,

With him expiring, feel mortality?

Is death, sin's wages, grace's now? shall art

Make us more learned, only to depart?

If merit be disease; if virtue, death;

To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath

Himself to discipline? who'd not esteem

Labour a crime? study self-murder deem?

Our noble youth now have pretence to be

Dunces securely, ignorant healthfully.

Rare linguist, whose worth speaks itself, whose praise,

Though not his own, all tongues besides do raise:

Than whom great Alexander may seem less,

Who conquered men, but not their languages.

In his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be

Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.

His native soil was the four parts o'the earth;

All Europe was too narrow for his birth.

A young apostle; and,--with reverence may

I speak't,--inspired with gift of tongues, as they.

Nature gave him, a child, what men in vain

Oft strive, by art though furthered, to obtain.

His body was an orb, his sublime soul

Did move on virtue's and on learning's pole;

Whose regular motions better to our view,

Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did shew.

Graces and virtues, languages and arts,

Beauty and learning, filled up all the parts.

Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear

Scattered in others, all, as in their sphere,

Were fixed, conglobate in his soul, and thence

Shone through his body, with sweet influence;

Letting their glories so on each limb fall,

The whole frame rendered was celestial.

Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make,

If thou this hero's altitude can'st take:

But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all,

Could we but prove thus astronomical.

Lived Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone[78]

More bright i'the morn, than others beam at noon,

He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here

What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.

Replenished then with such rare gifts as these,

Where was room left for such a foul disease?

The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds

Our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds.

Heaven would no longer trust its pledge, but thus

Recalled it,--rapt its Ganymede from us.

Was there no milder way but the small-pox,

The very filthiness of Pandora's box?

So many spots, like næves on Venus' soil,

One jewel set off with so many a foil;

Blisters with pride swelled, which through's flesh did sprout

Like rose-buds, stuck i'the lily-skin about.

Each little pimple had a tear in it,

To wail the fault its rising did commit;

Which, rebel-like, with its own lord at strife,

Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life.

Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,

The cabinet of a richer soul within?

No comet need foretel his change drew on,

Whose corpse might seem a constellation.

O had he died of old, how great a strife

Had been, who from his death should draw their life;

Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er

Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were!

Learned, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this

An universal metempsychosis.

Must all these aged sires in one funeral

Expire? all die in one so young, so small?

Who, had he lived his life out, his great fame

Had swoln 'bove any Greek or Roman name.

But hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought

The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought.

Thus fades the oak i'the sprig, i'the blade the corn;

Thus without young, this Phœnix dies, new-born.

Must then old three-legged grey-beards with their gout,

Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out?

Time's offals, only fit for the hospital!

Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal!

Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live

With such helps as broths, possets, physic give?

None live, but such as should die? shall we meet

With none but ghostly fathers in the street?

Grief makes me rail, sorrow will force its way,

And showers of tears tempestuous sighs best lay.

The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes

Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,

Now thy beloved, heaven-ravished spouse is gone,

Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply

Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy;

With greater than Platonic love, O wed

His soul, though not his body, to thy bed:

Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth

The ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;

Transcribe the original in new copies; give

Hastings o'the better part: so shall he live

In's nobler half; and the great grandsire be

Of an heroic divine progeny:

An issue which to eternity shall last,

Yet but the irradiations which he cast.

Erect no mausoleums; for his best

Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 78: Tycho Brache, the Danish astronomer.]

TO THE MEMORY OF MR OLDHAM.

JOHN OLDHAM, who, from the keenness of his satirical poetry, justly

acquired the title of the _English Juvenal_, was born at Shipton, in

Gloucestershire, where his father was a clergyman, on 9th August, 1653.

About 1678, he was an usher in the free school of Croydon; but having

already distinguished himself by several pieces of poetry, and

particularly by four severe satirical invectives against the order of

Jesuits, then obnoxious on account of the Popish Plot, he quitted that

mean situation, to become tutor to the family of Sir Edward Theveland,

and afterwards to a son of Sir William Hickes. Shortly after he seems to

have resigned all employment except the unthrifty trade of poetry. When

Oldham entered upon this career, he settled of course in the metropolis,

where his genius recommended him to the company of the first wits, and

to the friendship of Dryden. He did not long enjoy the pleasures of such

a life, nor did he live to experience the uncertainties, and

disappointment, and reverses, with which, above all others, it abounds.

Being seized with the small-pox, while visiting at the seat of his

patron, William Earl of Kingston, he died of that disease on the 9th

December, 1683, in the 30th year of his age.

His "Remains," in verse and prose, were soon afterwards published, with

elegies and recommendatory verses prefixed by Tate, Flatman, Durfey,

Gould, Andrews, and others. But the applause of Dryden, expressed in the

following lines, was worth all the tame panegyrics of other contemporary

bards. It appears, among the others, in "Oldham's Remains," London,

1683.

TO

THE MEMORY

OF

MR OLDHAM.

Farewell, too little, and too lately known,

Whom I began to think, and call my own:

For sure our souls were near allied, and thine

Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.

One common note on either lyre did strike,

And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.

To the same goal did both our studies drive;

The last set out, the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his young friend performed and won the race.

O early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more!

It might (what nature never gives the young)

Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.

But satire needs not those, and wit will shine

Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.[79]

A noble error, and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betrayed.

Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, }

Still shewed a quickness; and maturing time }

But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. }

Once more, hail, and farewell! farewell, thou young,

But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue!

Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;

But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

[Footnote 79: Dryden's opinion concerning the harshness of Oldham's

numbers, was not unanimously subscribed to by contemporary authors. In

the "Historical Dictionary," 1694, Oldham is termed, "a pithy,

sententious, elegant, and smooth writer:" and Winstanley says, that none

can read his works without admiration; "so pithy his strains, so

sententious his expression, so elegant his oratory, so swimming his

language, so smooth his lines." Tom Brown goes the length to impute our

author's qualification of his praise of Oldham to the malignant spirit

of envy: "'Tis your own way, Mr Bayes, as you may remember in your

verses upon Mr Oldham, where you tell the world that he was a very fine,

ingenious gentleman, but still did not understand the cadence of the

English tongue."--_Reasons for Mr Bayes' changing his Religion_, Part

II. p. 33.

But this only proves, that Tom Brown and Mr Winstanley were deficient in

poetical ear; for Oldham's satires, though full of vehemence and

impressive expression, are, in diction, not much more harmonious than

those of Hall or of Donne. The reader may take the following celebrated

passage on the life of a nobleman's chaplain, as illustrating both the

merits and defects of his poetry:

Some think themselves exalted to the sky,

If they light in some noble family;

Diet, a horse, and thirty pounds a year,

Besides the advantage of his Lordship's ear;

The credit of the business, and the state,

Are things that in a youngster's sense sound great.

Little the unexperienced wretch doth know

What slavery he oft must undergo;

Who, though in silken scarf and cassock dressed,

Wears but a gayer livery at best

When dinner calls, the implement must wait,

With holy words, to consecrate the meat;

But hold it for a favour seldom known,

If he be deigned the honour to sit down:

Soon as the tarts appear, Sir Crape withdraw;

These dainties are not for a spiritual maw.

Observe your distance, and be sure to stand

Hard by the cistern, with your cup in hand;

There for diversion you may pick your teeth,

Till the kind voider comes to your relief:

For mere board-wages such their freedom sell;

Slaves to an hour, and vassals to a bell;

And if the enjoyment of one day be stole,

They are but prisoners out upon parole;

Always the marks of slavery retain,

And e'en when loose, still drag about their chain.

And where's the mighty prospect, after all,

A chaplainship served up, and seven years thrall?

The menial thing perhaps, for a reward,

Is to some slender benefice preferred;

With this proviso bound, that he must wed }

My lady's antiquated waiting-maid, }

In dressing only skilled, and marmalade. }

Let others, who such meannesses can brook,

Strike countenance to every great man's look;

Let those that have a mind turn slaves to eat,

And live contented by another's plate;

I rate my freedom higher, nor will I

For food and raiment track my liberty:

But if I must to my last shifts be put,

To fill a bladder and twelve yards of gut,

Rather with counterfeited wooden leg,

And my right arm tied up, I'll chuse to beg;

I'll rather chuse to starve at large, than be

The gaudiest vassal to dependency.

'T has ever been the top of my desires,

The utmost height to which my wish aspires,

That heaven would bless me with a small estate;

There, free from noise and all ambitious ends,

Enjoy a few choice books, and fewer friends;

Lord of myself, accountable to none,

But to my conscience and my God alone;

There live unthought of, and unheard of die,

And grudge mankind my very memory.

_Satire to a Friend about to leave the University._

]

TO

THE PIOUS MEMORY

OF

MRS ANNE KILLIGREW.

MRS ANNE KILLIGREW was daughter of Dr Henry Killigrew, master of the

Savoy, and one of the prebendaries of Westminster, and brother of Thomas

Killigrew, renowned, in the court of Charles II., for wit and repartee.

The family, says Mr Walpole, was remarkable for its loyalty,

accomplishments, and wit; and this young lady, who displayed great

talents for painting and poetry, promised to be one of its fairest

ornaments. She was maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and died of

the small-pox in 1685, the 25th year of her age.

Mrs Anne Killigrew's poems were published after her death in a thin

quarto, with a print of the author, from her portrait drawn by herself.

She also painted the portraits of the Duke of York and of his Duchess,

and executed several historical pictures, landscapes, and pieces of

still life. See _Lord_ ORFORD'S _Lives of the Painters_, Works, Vol.

III. p. 297; and BALLARD'S _Lives of Learned Ladies_.

The poems of this celebrated young lady do not possess any uncommon

merit, nor are her paintings of a high class, although preferred by

Walpole to her poetry. But very slender attainments in such

accomplishments, when united with youth, beauty, and fashion, naturally

receive a much greater share of approbation from contemporaries, than

unbiassed posterity can afford to them. Even the flinty heart of old

Wood seems to have been melted by this young lady's charms,

notwithstanding her being of _womankind_, as he contemptuously calls

the fair sex. He says, that she was a Grace for a beauty, and a Muse for

a wit; and that there must have been more true history than compliment

in our author's ode, since otherwise the lady's father would not have

permitted it to go to press.--_Athenæ_, Vol. II. p. 1036.

This ode, which singularly exhibits the strong grasp and comprehensive

range of Dryden's fancy, as well as the harmony of his numbers, seems to

have been a great favourite of Dr Johnson, who, in one place, does not

hesitate to compare it to the famous ode on St Cecilia; and, in another,

calls it undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language ever has

produced. Although it is probable that few will subscribe to the

judgment of that great critic in the present instance, yet the verses

can never be read with indifference by any admirer of poetry. We are, it

is true, sometimes affronted by a pun, or chilled by a conceit; but the

general power of thought and expression resumes its sway, in despite of

the interruption given by such instances of bad taste. In its

arrangement, the ode is what the seventeenth century called pindaric;

freed, namely, from the usual rules of order and arrangement. This

license, which led most poets, who exercised it, to extravagance and

absurdity, only gave Dryden a wider scope for the exercise of his

wonderful power of combining and uniting the most dissimilar ideas, in a

manner as ingenious as his numbers are harmonious. Images and scenes,

the richest, though most inconsistent with each other, are sweeped

together by the flood of song: we neither see whence they arise, nor

whither they are going; but are contented to admire the richness and

luxuriance in which the poet has arrayed them. The opening of the poem

has been highly praised by Dr Johnson. "The first part," says that

critic, "flows with a torrent of enthusiasm,--_Fervet immensusque ruit_.

All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot be one

continued diamond; the gems must be held together by some less valuable

matter."

The stanzas, which appear to the editor peculiarly to exhibit the spirit

of the pindaric ode, are the first, second, fourth, and fifth. Of the

others, the third is too metaphysical for the occasion; the description

of the landscapes in the sixth is beautiful, and presents our

imagination with the scenery and groups of Claude Lorraine; and that of

the royal portraits, in the seventh, has some fine lines and turns of

expression: But I cannot admire, with many critics, the comparison of

the progress of genius to the explosion of a sky-rocket; and still less

the flat and familiar conclusion,

What next she had designed, heaven only knows.

The eighth stanza is disgraced by antitheses and conceit; and though

the beginning of the ninth be beautiful and affecting, our emotion is

quelled by the nature of the consolation administered to a sea captain,

that his sister is turned into a star. The last stanza excites ideas

perhaps too solemn for poetry; and what is worse, they are couched in

poetry too fantastic to be solemn; but the account of the resurrection

of the "sacred poets," is, in the highest degree, elegant and beautiful.

Anne Killigrew was the subject of several other poetical lamentations,

one or two of which are in the Luttrell Collection.

TO

THE PIOUS MEMORY

OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY

MRS ANNE KILLIGREW,

EXCELLENT IN

THE TWO SISTER ARTS

OF

POESY AND PAINTING.

AN ODE.

I.

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,

Made in the last promotion of the blest;

Whose palms, new plucked from paradise,

In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:

Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,

Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,

Or, in procession fixed and regular,

Mov'st with the heaven's majestic pace;

Or, called to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:

Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,

Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,

In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,

When thy first fruits of poesy were given,

To make thyself a welcome inmate there;

While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

II.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;

Thy father was transfused into thy blood:

So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,

An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.[80]

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was formed, at first, with myriads more,

It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, }

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: }

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. }

III.

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,

New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth.

For sure the milder planets did combine }

On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, }

And e'en the most malicious were in trine. }

Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,

That all the people of the sky

Might know a poetess was born on earth;

And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the music of the spheres.

And if no clustering swarm of bees

On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,

'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew:

For all thy blest fraternity of love

Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.

IV.

O gracious God! how far have we

Prophaned thy heavenly gift of poesy?

Made prostitute and profligate the muse,

Debased to each obscene and impious use,

Whose harmony was first ordained above

For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?

O wretched we! why were we hurried down

This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own)

T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage?

What can we say t'excuse our second fall?

Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all:

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,

Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.[81]

V.

Art she had none, yet wanted none;

For nature did that want supply:

So rich in treasures of her own,

She might our boasted stores defy:

Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,

That it seemed borrowed where 'twas only born.

Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,

By great examples daily fed,

What in the best of books, her father's life, she read:

And to be read herself she need not fear;

Each test, and every light, her muse will bear,

Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.

E'en love (for love sometimes her muse exprest)

Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast:

Light as the vapours of a morning dream,

So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,

'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,

One would have thought she should have been content

To manage well that mighty government;

But what can young ambitious souls confine?

To the next realm she stretched her sway, }

For Painture near adjoining lay, }

A plenteous province, and alluring prey. }

A chamber of dependencies was framed,

(As conquerors will never want pretence,

When armed, to justify the offence,)

And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claimed.

The country open lay without defence;

For poets frequent inroads there had made,

And perfectly could represent

The shape, the face, with every lineament,

And all the large domains which the Dumb Sister swayed;

All bowed beneath her government,

Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went.

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,

And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind.

The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,

And fruitful plains and barren rocks,

Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear,

The bottom did the top appear;

Of deeper too and ampler floods,

Which, as in mirrors, shewed the woods;

Of lofty trees, with sacred shades,

And perspectives of pleasant glades,

Where nymphs of brightest form appear, }

And shaggy satyrs standing near, }

Which them at once admire and fear. }

The ruins too of some majestic piece,

Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece,

Whose statues, frizes, columns, broken lie,

And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;

What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,

Her forming hand gave feature to the name.

So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,

But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.

VII.

The scene then changed; with bold erected look

Our martial king[82] the sight with reverence strook:

For, not content to express his outward part,

Her hand called out the image of his heart:

His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, }

His high-designing thoughts were figured there, }

As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. }

Our phœnix queen[83] was pourtrayed too so bright,

Beauty alone could beauty take so right:

Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace,

Were all observed, as well as heavenly face.

With such a peerless majesty she stands,

As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:

Before a train of heroines was seen,

In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen.

Thus nothing to her genius was denied,

But like a ball of fire the further thrown,

Still with a greater blaze she shone,

And her bright soul broke out on every side.

What next she had designed, heaven only knows:

To such immoderate growth her conquest rose,

That fate alone its progress could oppose.

VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace,

The well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;

In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.

Not wit, nor piety, could fate prevent;

Nor was the cruel destiny content

To finish all the murder at a blow,

To sweep at once her life and beauty too;

But, like a hardened felon, took a pride

To work more mischievously slow,

And plundered first, and then destroyed.

O double sacrilege on things divine,

To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died;[84]

Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;

As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

IX.

Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the winds displays,

And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.

Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,

The winds too soon will waft thee here:

Slack all thy sails, and fear to come;

Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wrecked at home!

No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,

Thou hast already had her last embrace.

But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far

Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,

If any sparkles than the rest more bright,

Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,

To raise the nations under ground;

When in the valley of Jehosophat,

The judging God shall close the book of fate,

And there the last assizes keep,

For those who wake, and those who sleep;

When rattling bones together fly,

From the four corners of the sky;

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,

Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;

The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, }

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, }

For they are covered with the lightest ground; }

And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,

Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.

There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, }

As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, }

The way which thou so well hast learnt below. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 80: Henry Killigrew, D.D., the young lady's father, was

himself a poet. He wrote "The Conspiracy," a tragedy much praised by Ben

Jonson and the amiable Lord Falkland, published in 1634. This edition

being pirated and spurious, the author altered the play, and changed the

title to "Pallantus and Eudora," published in 1652.--See WOOD'S _Athenæ

Oxon_. Vol. II. p. 1036.]

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

epitaph:

In wit a man, simplicity a child.

]

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

[Footnote 83: Mary of Este, as eminent for beauty as rank, also painted

by the subject of the elegy.]

[Footnote 84: Mrs Katherine Philips, whom the affectation of her age

called _Orinda_, was the daughter of Mr Fowler, a citizen of London.

Aubrey, the most credulous of mankind, tells us, in MS. Memoirs of her

life, that she read through the Bible before she was four years old, and

would take sermons verbatim by the time she was ten. She married a

decent respectable country gentleman, called Wogan; a name which, when

it occurred in her extensive literary correspondence, she exchanged for

the fantastic appellation of _Antenor_. She maintained a literary

intercourse for many years with bishops, earls, and wits, the main

object of which was the management and extrication of her husband's

affairs. But whether because the correspondents of Orinda were slack in

attending to her requests in her husband's favour, or whether because a

learned lady is a bad manager of sublunary concerns, Antenor's

circumstances became embarrassed, notwithstanding all Orinda's

exertions, and the fair solicitor was obliged to retreat with him into

Cardiganshire. Returning from this seclusion to London, in 1664, she was

seized with the small-pox, which carried her off in the 33d year of her

age.

Her poems and translations were collected into a folio after her death,

which bears the title of "Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs

Katherine Philips, the matchless ORINDA. London, 1667."--See BALLARD'S

_Memoirs of Learned Ladies_, p. 287.

This lady is here mentioned with the more propriety, as Mrs Anne

Killigrew dedicated the following lines to her memory:

Orinda (Albion's and our sexes grace)

Owed not her glory to a beauteous face,--

It was her radiant soul that shone within,

Which struck a lustre through her outward skin,

That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye,

Advanced her height, and sparkled in her eye:

Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,

But higher 'mong the stars it fixed her name;

What she did write not only all allowed,

But every laurel to her laurel bowed.

]

UPON THE DEATH OF

THE VISCOUNT OF DUNDEE.

JAMES GRAHAM of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, studied the military

art under the Prince of Orange. He first distinguished himself by his

activity in exercising the severities which the Scottish council, in the

reigns of Charles II. and James II., decreed against the frequenters of

the field-meetings and conventicles. On this account his memory is

generally reprobated by the Scottish presbyterians; nor would history

have treated him more gently, had not the splendour of his closing life

effaced the recollection of his cruelties. When the Scottish Convention

declared for the Prince of Orange in 1688-9, Dundee left Edinburgh, and

retired to the north, where he raised the Highland clans, to prop the

sinking cause of James II. After an interval of a few months, spent in

desultory warfare, General Mackay marched, with a regular force, towards

Blair in Athole, against this active and enterprising enemy. Upon the

17th June, 1689, when Mackay had defiled through the rocky and

precipitous pass of Killicrankie, he found Dundee, with his Highlanders,

arranged upon an eminence opposite to the northern mouth of the defile.

Dundee permitted his adversary gradually, and at leisure, to disengage

himself from the pass, and draw up his army in line; for, meditating a

total victory, and not a mere check or repulse, he foresaw that Mackay's

retreat would be difficult in proportion to the distance of his forces

from the only path of safety through which they could fly. He then

charged with irresistible fury, and routed Mackay's army in every

direction, saving two regiments who stood firm. But as Dundee hastened

towards them, and extended his arm as if urging the assault, a shot

penetrated his armour beneath his arm-pit, and he dropt from his horse.

He lived but a very short time, and died in the arms of victory. With

Dundee fell all hopes of restoring King James's affairs in Scotland; the

independent chieftains, who had been overawed by his superior talents,

resumed the petty altercations which his authority had decided or

suppressed; their followers melted away without a battle; and after his

death, those who had been rather the implements than the companions of

his victory, met nothing but repulse and defeat, until all the north of

Scotland submitted to William III.

The epitaph, here translated by Dryden, was originally written in Latin

by Dr Pitcairn, remarkable for genius and learning, as well as for

Jacobitism. It will hardly be disputed, that the original is much

superior to the translation, though the last be written by Dryden. In

the second couplet alone, the translator has improved upon his original:

IN MORTEM VICECOMITIS TAODUNENSIS.

ULTIME SCOTORUM! POTUIT, QUO SOSPITE SOLO,

LIBERTAS PATRIÆ SALVA FUISSE TUÆ;

TE MORIENTE NOVOS ACCEPIT SCOTIA CIVES,

ACCEPITQUE NOVOS, TE MORIENTE, DEOS.

ILLA TIBI SUPERESSE NEGAT, TU NON POTES ILLI,

ERGO CALEDONIÆ NOMEN INANE, VALE!

TUQUE VALE, GENTIS PRISCÆ FORTISSIME DUCTOR,

Some editions of this celebrated epitaph, which seem to have been

followed by Dryden, read the last line thus:

_Ultime Scotorum atque optime, Grame, Vale._

But there is something national in calling Dundee the last of Scots, and

the last of Grames, a race distinguished for patriotism in the struggles

against England, and on this principle the last reading should be

preferred.

UPON

THE DEATH

OF

THE VISCOUNT OF DUNDEE.

Oh last and best of Scots! who didst maintain

Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;

New people fill the land now thou art gone,

New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.

Scotland and thou did each in other live;

Nor would'st thou her, nor could she thee survive.

Farewell! who, dying, didst support the state,

And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.

ELEONORA:

A

PANEGYRICAL POEM,

DEDICATED

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE

COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.

----_Superas evadere per auras,

Hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci quos æquus amavit

Jupiter, aut ardens evixit ad æthera virtus,

Diis geniti potuere._

VIRGIL. Æneid. lib. vi.

ELEONORA.

MR. MALONE has given a full account of the lady in whose honour this

poem was written: "Eleonora, eldest daughter, and at length sole heir,

of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in the county of Oxford, Baronet, by

Anne, daughter of Sir John Danvers, and sister and heir to Henry

Danvers, Esq., who was nephew and heir to Henry, Earl of Danby: She was

the wife of James Bertie, first Earl of Abingdon, and died May 31, 1691.

Her lord, in 1698, married a second wife, Catharine, daughter of Sir

Thomas Chamberlaine, Bart."

Her death was unexpectedly sudden, and took place in a ball-room in her

own house; a circumstance which our author has hardly glanced at,

although capable of striking illustration; and although one might have

thought he would have grasped at whatever could assist him in executing

the difficult task, of an elegy written by desire of a nobleman whom he

did not know, in memory of a lady whom he had never seen. It is to be

presumed, that the task imposed was handsomely recompensed; for we can

hardly conceive one in itself more unpleasant or unprofitable.

Notwithstanding Dryden's professions, that he "swam with the tide" while

composing this piece, and that the variety and multitude of his similies

were owing to the divine _afflatus_ and the influence of his subject, we

may be fairly permitted to doubt, whether they did not rather originate

in an attempt to supply the lack of real sympathy, by the indulgence of

a luxuriant imagination. The commencement has been rather severely

censured by Dr Johnson; the comparison, he says, contains no

illustration. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented:

"This," observes he, "is little better than to say of a shrub, that it

is as green as a tree; or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as a

river waters a country." But, I presume, the point on which Dryden meant

the comparison to depend, was, the extent of the lamentation occasioned

by Eleonora's death; in which particular the simile conveyed an

illustration as ample, as if Dryden had said of a myrtle, it was as tall

as an oak, or of a brook, it was as deep as the Thames.

The poem is certainly totally deficient in interest; for the character

has no peculiarity of features: But, considered as an abstract example

of female perfection, we may admire the ideal Eleonora, as we do the

fancy-piece of a celebrated painter, though with an internal

consciousness that the original never existed.

"Eleonora" first appeared in quarto, in 1692, probably about the end of

autumn; as Dryden alludes to the intervention of some months between

Lord Abingdon's commands and his own performance.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c.[85]

MY LORD,

The commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are now

performed: they had been sooner, but betwixt ill health, some business,

and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time. Ovid,

going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his friends,

excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told them, that

good verses never flow, but from a serene and composed spirit. Wit,

which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and heels,

can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to obey you

late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing any thing, at any

time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say that

I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by hard

swimming, where I may pant awhile and gather breath; for the doctors

give me a sad assurance, that my disease[86] never took its leave of

any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord, I have laid

hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left

me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to

my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the

inspiration when we please; but must wait till the God comes rushing on

us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist; which

gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us

languishing and spent, at its departure. Let me not seem to boast, my

lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond

my natural power. Let me add, and hope to be believed, that the

excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the

execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while I

was writing. I swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant.

The reader will easily observe, that I was transported by the multitude

and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a

luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. Had I called in my judgment

to my assistance, I had certainly retrenched many of them. But I defend

them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of

critics; for the whole poem, though written in that which they call

heroic verse, is of the pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the

expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it.

It was intended, as your lordship sees in the title, not for an elegy,

but a panegyric: a kind of apotheosis, indeed, if a heathen word may be

applied to a Christian use. And on all occasions of praise, if we take

the ancients for our patterns, we are bound by prescription to employ

the magnificence of words, and the force of figures, to adorn the

sublimity of thoughts. Isocrates amongst the Grecian orators, and

Cicero, and the younger Pliny, amongst the Romans, have left us their

precedents for our security; for I think I need not mention the

inimitable Pindar, who stretches on these pinions out of sight, and is

carried upward, as it were, into another world.

This, at least, my lord, I may justly plead, that, if I have not

performed so well as I think I have, yet I have used my best endeavours

to excel myself. One disadvantage I have had, which is, never to have

known or seen my lady; and to draw the lineaments of her mind from the

description which I have received from others, is for a painter to set

himself at work without the living original before him; which, the more

beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive,

when he has only a relation given him of such and such features by an

acquaintance or a friend, without the nice touches, which give the best

resemblance, and make the graces of the picture. Every artist is apt

enough to flatter himself, and I amongst the rest, that their own ocular

observations would have discovered more perfections, at least others,

than have been delivered to them; though I have received mine from the

best hands, that is, from persons who neither want a just understanding

of my lady's worth, nor a due veneration for her memory.

Doctor Donne, the greatest wit, though not the best poet of our nation,

acknowledges, that he had never seen Mrs Drury, whom he has made

immortal in his admirable "Anniversaries."[87] I have had the same

fortune, though I have not succeeded to the same genius. However, I have

followed his footsteps in the design of his panegyric; which was to

raise an emulation in the living, to copy out the example of the dead.

And therefore it was, that I once intended to have called this poem "The

Pattern;" and though, on a second consideration, I changed the title

into the name of that illustrious person, yet the design continues, and

Eleonora is still the pattern of charity, devotion, and humility; of the

best wife, the best mother, and the best of friends.

And now, my lord, though I have endeavoured to answer your commands, yet

I could not answer it to the world, nor to my conscience, if I gave not

your lordship my testimony of being the best husband now living: I say

my testimony only; for the praise of it is given you by yourself. They,

who despise the rules of virtue both in their practice and their morals,

will think this a very trivial commendation. But I think it the peculiar

happiness of the Countess of Abingdon, to have been so truly loved by

you, while she was living, and so gratefully honoured, after she was

dead. Few there are who have either had, or could have, such a loss;

and yet fewer, who carried their love and constancy beyond the grave.

The exteriors of mourning, a decent funeral, and black habits, are the

usual stints of common husbands; and perhaps their wives deserve no

better than to be mourned with hypocrisy, and forgot with ease. But you

have distinguished yourself from ordinary lovers, by a real and lasting

grief for the deceased; and by endeavouring to raise for her the most

durable monument, which is that of verse. And so it would have proved,

if the workman had been equal to the work, and your choice of the

artificer as happy as your design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the

statue of Minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author

of the piece; so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to

this poem, I may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity

by the memory of hers. It is no flattery to assure your lordship, that

she is remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of

her conversation and acquaintance; and that I have never been in any

company since the news of her death was first brought me, where they

have not extolled her virtues, and even spoken the same things of her in

prose, which I have done in verse.

I therefore think myself obliged to your lordship for the commission

which you have given me: how I have acquitted myself of it, must be left

to the opinion of the world, in spite of any protestation which I can

enter against the present age, as incompetent or corrupt judges. For my

comfort, they are but Englishmen; and, as such, if they think ill of me

to-day, they are inconstant enough to think well of me to-morrow. And

after all, I have not much to thank my fortune that I was born amongst

them. The good of both sexes are so few, in England, that they stand

like exceptions against general rules; and though one of them has

deserved a greater commendation than I could give her, they have taken

care that I should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the like

subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and left

almost as individual as the person. They say, my talent is satire; if it

be so, it is a fruitful age, and there is an extraordinary crop to

gather, but a single hand is insufficient for such a harvest: they have

sown the dragon's teeth themselves, and it is but just they should reap

each other in lampoons. You, my lord, who have the character of honour,

though it is not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the

small remainders of the English nobility, truly such, and, unhurt

yourselves, behold the mad combat. If I have pleased you, and some few

others, I have obtained my end. You see I have disabled myself, like an

elected Speaker of the House; yet, like him, I have undertaken the

charge, and find the burden sufficiently recompensed by the honour. Be

pleased to accept of these my unworthy labours, this paper monument; and

let her pious memory, which I am sure is sacred to you, not only plead

the pardon of my many faults, but gain me your protection, which is

ambitiously sought by,

My LORD,

Your Lordship's

Most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 85: James Bertie, Lord Norris of Rycote, was created Earl of

Abingdon in 1682. There is in the Luttrell Collection an Elegy on his

death.]

[Footnote 86: The gout.]

[Footnote 87: Donne's character as a love-poet is elsewhere very well

given by Dryden. "He affects the metaphysics, not only in his satires,

but in his amorous verses, where nature only should reign; and perplexes

the minds of the fair sex with the speculations of philosophy, where he

should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softness of

love." Elizabeth Drury was the daughter of Sir Robert Drury, with whom

Donne went to Paris. Donne celebrated her merit, and lamented her death

in elegies, entitled, "The Anatomy of the World, wherein, by occasion of

the untimely Death of Mrs Elizabeth Drury, the frailty and the decay of

this whole World is represented." These elegiac verses are divided into

two anniversaries, through which the editor attempted in vain to

struggle in search of the acknowledgment quoted by Dryden.]

ELEONORA:

A

PANEGYRICAL POEM,

DEDICATED

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE

COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.

ARGUMENT.

From the Marginal Notes of the First Edition.

_The introduction. Of her charity. Of her prudent management. Of her

humility. Of her piety. Of her various virtues. Of her conjugal

virtues. Of her love to her children. Her care of their education.

Of her friendship. Reflections on the shortness of her life. The

manner of her death. Her preparedness to die. Apostrophe to her

soul. Epiphonema, or close of the poem._

As when some great and gracious monarch dies,

Soft whispers first, and mournful murmurs, rise

Among the sad attendants; then the sound

Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around,

Through town and country, till the dreadful blast

Is blown to distant colonies at last,

Who then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain,

For his long life, and for his happy reign:

So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame }

Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, }

Till public as the loss the news became. }

The nation felt it in the extremest parts,

With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts;

But most the poor, whom daily she supplied,

Beginning to be such, but when she died.

For, while she lived, they slept in peace by night,

Secure of bread, as of returning light,

And with such firm dependence on the day,

That need grew pampered, and forgot to pray;

So sure the dole, so ready at their call,

They stood prepared to see the manna fall.

Such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nurst,

That she herself might fear her wanting first.

Of her five talents, other five she made;

Heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid;

And in few lives, in wonderous few, we find

A fortune better fitted to the mind.

Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,

Or proud desire of praise--the soul gave all:

Unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear,

No less than heaven, to heap huge treasures there.

Want passed for merit at her open door:

Heaven saw, he safely might increase his poor,

And trust their sustenance with her so well,

As not to be at charge of miracle.

None could be needy, whom she saw or knew;

All in the compass of her sphere she drew:

He, who could touch her garment, was as sure,

As the first Christians of the apostles' cure.

The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds,

And laid her up for their extremest needs;

A future cordial for a fainting mind;

For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find,

Each in his turn: the rich might freely come,

As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas home.

As to some holy house the afflicted came, }

The hunger-starved, the naked, and the lame, }

Want and diseases fled before her name. }

For zeal like her's her servants were too slow; }

She was the first, where need required, to go; }

Herself the foundress and attendant too. }

Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,

Guests in disguise, of her great Master's train:

Her Lord himself might come, for aught we know,

Since in a servant's form he lived below:

Beneath her roof he might be pleased to stay;

Or some benighted angel, in his way,

Might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven appear

In its best work of mercy, think it there;

Where all the deeds of charity and love

Were in as constant method, as above,

All carried on; all of a piece with theirs; }

As free her alms, as diligent her cares; }

As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers. }

Yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste,

And wisely managed, that the stock might last;

That all might be supplied, and she not grieve,

When crowds appeared, she had not to relieve:

Which to prevent, she still increased her store;

Laid up, and spared, that she might give the more.

So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he,

Provided for the seventh necessity;[88]

Taught from above his magazines to frame,

That famine was prevented ere it came.

Thus heaven, though all-sufficient, shews a thrift

In his œconomy, and bounds his gift;

Creating for our day one single light,

And his reflection too supplies the night.

Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie

Remote from us, and latent in the sky,

Are lightened by his beams, and kindly nurst,

Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst.

Now, as all virtues keep the middle line,

Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,

Such was her soul; abhorring avarice,

Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice;

Had she given more, it had profusion been,

And turned the excess of goodness into sin.

These virtues raised her fabric to the sky;

For that which is next heaven is charity.

But as high turrets for their airy steep

Require foundations in proportion deep,

And lofty cedars as far upward shoot

As to the nether heavens they drive the root;

So low did her secure foundation lie,

She was not humble, but humility.

Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair, }

Or wise, beyond what other women are, }

Or, which is better, knew, but never durst compare. }

For, to be conscious of what all admire,

And not be vain, advances virtue higher.

But still she found, or rather thought she found,

Her own worth wanting, others' to abound;

Ascribed above their due to every one,

Unjust and scanty to herself alone.

Such her devotion was, as might give rules

Of speculation to disputing schools,

And teach us equally the scales to hold

Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold;

That pious heat may moderately prevail,

And we be warmed, but not be scorched with zeal.

Business might shorten, not disturb, her prayer;

Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.

An active life long orisons forbids;

Yet still she prayed, for still she prayed by deeds.

Her every day was sabbath; only free

From hours of prayer, for hours of charity.

Such as the Jews from servile toil released,

Where works of mercy were a part of rest;

Such as blest angels exercise above,

Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love;

Such sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,

E'en that perpetual one, which she employs,

(For such vicissitudes in heaven there are)

In praise alternate, and alternate prayer.

All this she practised here, that when she sprung

Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung;

Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays;

For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.

All offices of heaven so well she knew,

Before she came, that nothing there was new;

And she was so familiarly received,

As one returning, not as one arrived.

Muse, down again precipitate thy flight;

For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light?

But as the sun in water we can bear,

Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,

So let us view her here in what she was,

And take her image in this watery glass:

Yet look not every lineament to see; }

Some will be cast in shades, and some will be }

So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 'tis she. }

For where such various virtues we recite, }

'Tis like the milky-way, all over bright, }

But sown so thick with stars, 'tis undistinguished light. }

Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call;

For one heroic comprehends them all:

One, as a constellation is but one, }

Though 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on, }

Rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run, }

Ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends, }

Now hope, now charity, that upward tends, }

And downwards with diffusive good descends. }

As in perfumes composed with art and cost,

Tis hard to say what scent is uppermost;

Nor this part musk or civet can we call,

Or amber, but a rich result of all;

So she was all a sweet, whose every part,

In due proportion mixed, proclaimed the Maker's art.

No single virtue we could most commend,

Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend;

For she was all, in that supreme degree,

That as no one prevailed, so all was she.

The several parts lay hidden in the piece;

The occasion but exerted that, or this.

A wife as tender, and as true withal,

As the first woman was before her fall:

Made for the man, of whom she was a part;

Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart.

A second Eve, but by no crime accurst;

As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.

Had she been first, still Paradise had been,

And death had found no entrance by her sin.

So she not only had preserved from ill

Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still.

Love and obedience to her lord she bore;

She much obeyed him, but she loved him more:

Not awed to duty by superior sway,

But taught by his indulgence to obey.

Thus we love God, as author of our good;

So subjects love just kings, or so they should.

Nor was it with ingratitude returned; }

In equal fires the blissful couple burned; }

One joy possessed them both, and in one grief they mourned. }

His passion still improved; he loved so fast,

As if he feared each day would be her last.

Too true a prophet to foresee the fate

That should so soon divide their happy state;

When he to heaven entirely must restore

That love, that heart, where he went halves before.

Yet as the soul is all in every part,

So God and he might each have all her heart.

So had her children too; for charity

Was not more fruitful, or more kind, than she:[89]

Each under other by degrees they grew;

A goodly perspective of distant view.

Anchises looked not with so pleased a face,

In numbering o'er his future Roman race,[90]

And marshalling the heroes of his name,

As, in their order, next to light they came;

Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,

Surveyed her sons and daughters of the sky;

Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?

As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.

Her pious love excelled to all she bore;

New objects only multiplied it more.

And as the chosen found the pearly grain

As much as every vessel could contain;

As in the blissful vision each shall share }

As much of glory as his soul can bear; }

So did she love, and so dispense her care. }

Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,

As longer cultivated than the rest.

The babe had all that infant care beguiles,

And early knew his mother in her smiles:

But when dilated organs let in day

To the young soul, and gave it room to play,

At his first aptness, the maternal love

Those rudiments of reason did improve:

The tender age was pliant to command;

Like wax it yielded to the forming hand:

True to the artificer, the laboured mind

With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind;

Soft for impression, from the first prepared,

Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:

With every act confirmed, and made at last

So durable as not to be effaced,

It turned to habit; and, from vices free,

Goodness resolved into necessity.

Thus fixed she virtue's image, (that's her own,)

Till the whole mother in the children shone;

For that was their perfection: she was such,

They never could express her mind too much.

So unexhausted her perfections were,

That, for more children, she had more to spare;

For souls unborn, whom her untimely death

Deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath;

And, could they take the impressions of her mind,

Enough still left to sanctify her kind.

Then wonder not to see this soul extend

The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend;

As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide,

To seek repose, and empty out the tide;

So this full soul, in narrow limits pent,

Unable to contain her, sought a vent

To issue out, and in some friendly breast

Discharge her treasures, and securely rest;

To unbosom all the secrets of her heart,

Take good advice, but better to impart.

For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state, }

To mix their minds, and to communicate; }

Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate: }

Fixed to her choice, inviolably true,

And wisely choosing, for she chose but few.

Some she must have; but in no one could find

A tally fitted for so large a mind.

The souls of friends like kings in progress are,

Still in their own, though from the palace far:

Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was,

A sweet retirement to a coarser place;

Where pomp and ceremonies entered not,

Where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot.

This is the imperfect draught; but short as far }

As the true height and bigness of a star }

Exceeds the measures of the astronomer. }

She shines above, we know; but in what place,

How near the throne, and heaven's imperial face,

By our weak optics is but vainly guessed;

Distance and altitude conceal the rest.

Though all these rare endowments of the mind

Were in a narrow space of life confined,

The figure was with full perfection crowned;

Though not so large an orb, as truly round.

As when in glory, through the public place,

The spoils of conquered nations were to pass,

And but one day for triumph was allowed,

The consul was constrained his pomp to crowd;

And so the swift procession hurried on,

That all, though not distinctly, might be shewn:

So in the straitened bounds of life confined,

She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind;

And multitudes of virtues passed along,

Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng,

Ambitious to be seen, and then make room

For greater multitudes that were to come.

Yet unemployed no minute slipped away;

Moments were precious in so short a stay.

The haste of heaven to have her was so great, }

That some were single acts, though each complete; }

But every act stood ready to repeat. }

Her fellow-saints with busy care will look

For her blest name in fate's eternal book;

And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see

Numberless virtues, endless charity:

But more will wonder at so short an age,

To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page;

And with a pious fear begin to doubt

The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.

But 'twas her Saviour's time;[91] and, could there be

A copy near the original, 'twas she.

As precious gums are not for lasting fire,

They but perfume the temple, and expire;

So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence;

A short sweet odour, of a vast expence.

She vanished, we can scarcely say she died;

For but a now did heaven and earth divide:

She passed serenely with a single breath;

This moment perfect health, the next was death:

One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue,

Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;

So close they follow, such wild order keep,

We think ourselves awake, and are asleep;

So softly death succeeded life in her,

She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise;

Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice;

As an old friend is beckoned to a feast,

And treated like a long-familiar guest.

He took her as he found, but found her so,

As one in hourly readiness to go;

E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared,[92]

As early notice she from heaven had heard,

And some descending courier from above

Had given her timely warning to remove;

Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room,

For on that night the bridegroom was to come.

He kept his hour, and found her where she lay,

Clothed all in white, the livery of the day:[93]

Scarce had she sinned in thought, or word, or act,

Unless omissions were to pass for fact;

That hardly death a consequence could draw,

To make her liable to nature's law.

And, that she died, we only have to shew

The mortal part of her she left below;

The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went, }

Looked like translation through the firmament, }

Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent. }

O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,

Where thou art all intelligence, all eye,

If looking up to God, or down to us,

Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,

Survey the ruins of thy house, and see

Thy widowed and thy orphan family;

Look on thy tender pledges left behind;

And, if thou canst a vacant minute find

From heavenly joys, that interval afford

To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.

See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,

And shed a beam of comfort from above;

Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,

A transient view of thy full glories there;

That they with moderate sorrow may sustain,

And mollify their losses in thy gain.

Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert, }

That should not all relations bear a part, }

It were enough to break a single heart. }

Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse

This humble tribute, of no vulgar muse;

Who, not by cares, or wants, or age deprest,

Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast;

And dares to sing thy praises in a clime

Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime;

Where e'en to draw the picture of thy mind,

Is satire on the most of human kind:

Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage,

Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age;

So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence

From vice, but barely by departing hence.

Be what, and where thou art; to wish thy place,

Were, in the best, presumption more than grace.

Thy relics, (such thy works of mercy are)

Have, in this poem, been my holy care.

As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky, }

So shall this verse preserve thy memory; }

For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 88: In allusion to the provision made in Egypt, during the

seven years of plenty, for the succeeding seven years of famine.]

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

[Footnote 90: Æneas descending to the shades, finds his father Anchises

engaged in the review of his posterity.--See _Æneid_, lib. vi.]

[Footnote 91: Lady Abingdon died in her thirty-third year; at which age

Jesus Christ was crucified.]

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

[Footnote 93: Whitsunday night.]

ON

THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,

Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn,

When Damon, who designed to pass the day

With hounds and horns, and chace the flying prey,

Rose early from his bed; but soon he found }

The welkin pitched with sullen clouds around, }

An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground. }

Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey

The fields, and curst the ill omens of the day,

He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace:

Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:

He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,

And sent his voice before him from afar.

"Return," he cried, "return, unhappy swain,

The spungy clouds are filled with gathering rain:

The promise of the day not only crossed,

But even the spring, the spring itself is lost.

Amyntas--oh!"--he could not speak the rest,

Nor needed, for presaging Damon guessed.

Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy,

The boast of nature, both his parents' joy.

His graceful form revolving in his mind;

So great a genius, and a soul so kind,

Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;

Too well the envy of the gods he knew:

For when their gifts too lavishly are placed,

Soon they repent, and will not make them last.

For sure it was too bountiful a dole,

The mother's features, and the father's soul.

Then thus he cried:--"The _morn_ bespoke the news;

The morning did her cheerful light diffuse;

But see how suddenly she changed her face, }

And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace; }

Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race. }

What charms adorned thy youth, where nature smiled,

And more than man was given us in a child!

His infancy was ripe; a soul sublime

In years so tender that prevented time:

Heaven gave him all at once; then snatched away, }

Ere mortals all his beauties could survey; }

Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day. }

MENALCAS.

The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,

Reclined his dying head upon her breast.

The mournful family stood all around; }

One groan was heard, one universal sound: }

All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drowned. }

So dire a sadness sat on every look,

Even death repented he had given the stroke.

He grieved his fatal work had been ordained,

But promised length of life to those who yet remained.

The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,

It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space.

The father bore it with undaunted soul,

Like one who durst his destiny controul;

Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,

Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart.

Patient as Job; and may he live to see,

Like him, a new increasing family!

DAMON.

Such is my wish, and such my prophecy;

For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;

Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!

But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race

More lasting, and endued with equal grace!

Equal she may, but farther none can go;

For he was all that was exact below.

MENALCAS.

Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;

Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?

There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play

About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way.

He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies,

And every moment gains upon the skies.

The new-come guest admires the ethereal state,

The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;

And now admitted in the shining throng,

He shows the passport which he brought along.

His passport is his innocence and grace,

Well known to all the natives of the place.

Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire

Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire:

Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;

For, like Amyntas, none is left below.

ON

THE DEATH

OF

A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

He, who could view the book of destiny,

And read whatever there was writ of thee,

O charming youth, in the first opening page,

So many graces in so green an age,

Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,

A soul at once so manly and so kind,

Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er,

And, after some few leaves, should find no more.

Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,

A step of life that promised such a race.

We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began

A child, and could not finish him a man;

Reflecting what a mighty store was laid

Of rich materials, and a model made:

The cost already furnished; so bestowed,

As more was never to one soul allowed:

Yet after this profusion spent in vain,

Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,

I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,

Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself;

And giving us the use, did soon recal,

Ere we could spare the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappeared, was rarefied,

For 'tis improper speech to say he died:

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew

His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,

But the taint Adam left on every son.

He added not, he was so pure, so good,

'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood;

And that so little, that the river ran

More clear than the corrupted fount began.

Nothing remained of the first muddy clay;

The length of course had washed it in the way:

So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold

The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such we loved, admired, almost adored,

Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.

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.--

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,

_A present deity!_ they shout around;

_A present deity!_ the vaulted roofs rebound.

With ravished ears,

The monarch hears;

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS.

_With ravished ears,

The monarch hears;

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres._

III.

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung;

Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes;

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;

Flushed with a purple grace

He shews his honest face:

Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain;

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

CHORUS.

_Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldiers pleasure;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain._

IV.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain:

Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.--

The master saw the madness rise,

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;

And, while he heaven and earth defied,

Changed his hand, and checked his pride.

He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse;

He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate,

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,

And weltering in his blood:

Deserted, at his utmost need,

By those his former bounty fed;

On the bare earth exposed he lies,

With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,

Revolving, in his altered soul,

The various turns of chance below;

And, now and then, a sigh he stole,

And tears began to flow.

CHORUS.

_Revolving, in his altered soul,

The various turns of chance below;

And, now and then, a sigh he stole,

And tears began to flow._

V.

The mighty master smiled, to see

That love was in the next degree;

'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,

For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures:

War, he sung, is toil and trouble;

Honour, but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,

Fighting still, and still destroying:

If the world be worth thy winning,

Think, O think it worth enjoying;

Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee--

The many rend the skies with loud applause;

So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair,

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

Sighed and looked, and sighed again;

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,

The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

CHORUS.

_The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair,

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,

Sighed and looked, and sighed again;

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,

The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast._

VI.

Now strike the golden lyre again;

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark! the horrid sound

Has raised up his head;

As awaked from the dead,

And amazed, he stares around.

Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise;

See the snakes, that they rear,

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain,

And, unburied, remain

Inglorious on the plain:

Give the vengeance due

To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods.--

The princes applaud, with a furious joy,

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

CHORUS.

_And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;

Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy._

VII.

Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,

While organs yet were mute,

Timotheus, to his breathing flute,

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

GRAND CHORUS.

_At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down._

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS,

PARAPHRASED.

Creator spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid,

Come visit every pious mind;

Come pour thy joys on human kind;

From sin and sorrow set us free,

And make thy temples worthy thee.

O source of uncreated light,

The Father's promised Paraclete!

Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,

Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;

Come, and thy sacred unction bring

To sanctify us, while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,

Rich in thy seven-fold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty hand,

Whose power does heaven and earth command.

Proceeding spirit, our defence, }

Who do'st the gifts of tongues dispense, }

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence. }

Refine and purge our earthly parts;

But, O, inflame and fire our hearts!

Our frailties help, our vice controul,

Submit the senses to the soul;

And, when rebellious they are grown,

Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.

Chace from our minds the infernal foe;

And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;

And, lest our feet should step astray,

Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,

And practise all that we believe;

Give us thyself, that we may see

The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,

Attend the Almighty Father's name;

The Saviour Son be glorified,

Who for lost man's redemption died;

And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

FABLES.

TALES FROM CHAUCER.

TO

HIS GRACE

THE

DUKE OF ORMOND.[98]

_Anno 1699._

MY LORD,

Some estates are held, in England, by paying a fine at the change of

every lord. I have enjoyed the patronage of your family, from the time

of your excellent grandfather to this present day. I have dedicated the

translations of the "Lives of Plutarch" to the first duke;[99] and have

celebrated the memory of your heroic father.[100] Though I am very

short of the age of Nestor, yet I have lived to a third generation of

your house; and, by your grace's favour, am admitted still to hold from

you by the same tenure.

I am not vain enough to boast, that I have deserved the value of so

illustrious a line; but my fortune is the greater, that, for three

descents, they have been pleased to distinguish my poems from those of

other men, and have accordingly made me their peculiar care. May it be

permitted me to say, that as your grandfather and father were cherished

and adorned with honours by two successive monarchs, so I have been

esteemed and patronized by the grandfather, the father, and the son,

descended from one of the most ancient, most conspicuous, and most

deserving families in Europe.

It is true, that by delaying the payment of my last fine, when it was

due by your grace's accession to the titles and patrimonies of your

house, I may seem, in rigour of law, to have made a forfeiture of my

claim; yet my heart has always been devoted to your service; and since

you have been graciously pleased, by your permission of this address, to

accept the tender of my duty, it is not yet too late to lay these poems

at your feet.

The world is sensible, that you worthily succeed not only to the honours

of your ancestors, but also to their virtues. The long chain of

magnanimity, courage, easiness of access, and desire of doing good, even

to the prejudice of your fortune, is so far from being broken in your

grace, that the precious metal yet runs pure to the newest link of it;

which I will not call the last, because I hope and pray it may descend

to late posterity; and your flourishing youth, and that of your

excellent duchess, are happy omens of my wish.

It is observed by Livy, and by others, that some of the noblest Roman

families retained a resemblance of their ancestry, not only in their

shapes and features, but also in their manners, their qualities, and the

distinguishing characters of their minds. Some lines were noted for a

stern, rigid virtue; savage, haughty, parsimonious, and unpopular;

others were more sweet and affable, made of a more pliant paste, humble,

courteous, and obliging; studious of doing charitable offices, and

diffusive of the goods which they enjoyed. The last of these is the

proper and indelible character of your grace's family. God Almighty has

endued you with a softness, a beneficence, an attractive behaviour

winning on the hearts of others, and so sensible of their misery, that

the wounds of fortune seem not inflicted on them, but on yourself.[101]

You are so ready to redress, that you almost prevent their wishes, and

always exceed their expectations; as if what was yours was not your own,

and not given you to possess, but to bestow on wanting merit. But this

is a topic which I must cast in shades, lest I offend your modesty;

which is so far from being ostentatious of the good you do, that it

blushes even to have it known; and, therefore, I must leave you to the

satisfaction and testimony of your own conscience, which, though it be a

silent panegyric, is yet the best.

You are so easy of access, that Poplicola[102] was not more, whose doors

were opened on the outside to save the people even the common civility

of asking entrance; where all were equally admitted; where nothing that

was reasonable was denied; where misfortune was a powerful

recommendation; and where, I can scarce forbear saying, that want itself

was a powerful mediator, and was next to merit.

The history of Peru assures us, that their Incas, above all their

titles, esteemed that the highest, which called them _lovers of the

poor_;--a name more glorious than the Felix, Pius, and Augustus, of the

Roman emperors, which were epithets of flattery, deserved by few of

them; and not running in a blood like the perpetual gentleness, and

inherent goodness, of the Ormond family.

Gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest and most ductile of all

metals. Iron, which is the hardest, gathers rust, corrodes itself, and

is, therefore, subject to corruption. It was never intended for coins

and medals, or to bear the faces and inscriptions of the great. Indeed,

it is fit for armour, to bear off insults, and preserve the wearer in

the day of battle; but, the danger once repelled, it is laid aside by

the brave, as a garment too rough for civil conversation; a necessary

guard in war, but too harsh and cumbersome in peace, and which keeps off

the embraces of a more humane life.

For this reason, my lord, though you have courage in an heroical degree,

yet I ascribe it to you but as your second attribute: mercy,

beneficence, and compassion, claim precedence, as they are first in the

divine nature. An intrepid courage, which is inherent in your grace, is

at best but a holiday-kind of virtue, to be seldom exercised, and never

but in cases of necessity; affability, mildness, tenderness, and a word,

which I would fain bring back to its original signification of virtue, I

mean good-nature, are of daily use. They are the bread of mankind, and

staff of life. Neither sighs, nor tears, nor groans, nor curses of the

vanquished, follow acts of compassion and of charity; but a sincere

pleasure, and serenity of mind, in him who performs an action of mercy,

which cannot suffer the misfortunes of another without redress, lest

they should bring a kind of contagion along with them, and pollute the

happiness which he enjoys.

Yet since the perverse tempers of mankind, since oppression on one side,

and ambition on the other, are sometimes the unavoidable occasions of

war, that courage, that magnanimity, and resolution, which is born with

you, cannot be too much commended: And here it grieves me that I am

scanted in the pleasure of dwelling on many of your actions; but

αιδεομαι Τρωας is an expression which Tully often uses,

when he would do what he dares not, and fears the censure of the Romans.

I have sometimes been forced to amplify on others; but here, where the

subject is so fruitful, that the harvest overcomes the reaper, I am

shortened by my chain, and can only see what is forbidden me to reach;

since it is not permitted me to commend you according to the extent of

my wishes, and much less is it in my power to make my commendations

equal to your merits.

Yet, in this frugality of your praises, there are some things which I

cannot omit, without detracting from your character. You have so formed

your own education, as enables you to pay the debt you owe your

country, or, more properly speaking, both your countries; because you

were born, I may almost say, in purple, at the castle of Dublin, when

your grandfather was lord-lieutenant, and have since been bred in the

court of England.

If this address had been in verse, I might have called you, as Claudian

calls Mercury, _Numen commune, gemino faciens commercia mundo_. The

better to satisfy this double obligation, you have early cultivated the

genius you have to arms, that when the service of Britain or Ireland

shall require your courage and your conduct, you may exert them both to

the benefit of either country. You began in the cabinet what you

afterwards practised in the camp; and thus both Lucullus and Cæsar (to

omit a crowd of shining Romans) formed themselves to the war, by the

study of history, and by the examples of the greatest captains, both of

Greece and Italy, before their time. I name those two commanders in

particular, because they were better read in chronicle than any of the

Roman leaders; and that Lucullus, in particular, having only the theory

of war from books, was thought fit, without practice, to be sent into

the field, against the most formidable enemy of Rome. Tully, indeed, was

called the learned consul in derision; but then he was not born a

soldier; his head was turned another way: when he read the tactics, he

was thinking on the bar, which was his field of battle. The knowledge of

warfare is thrown away on a general, who dares not make use of what he

knows. I commend it only in a man of courage and resolution; in him it

will direct his martial spirit, and teach him the way to the best

victories, which are those that are least bloody, and which, though

achieved by the hand, are managed by the head. Science distinguishes a

man of honour from one of those athletic brutes whom, undeservedly, we

call heroes. Cursed be the poet, who first honoured with that name a

mere Ajax, a man-killing idiot! The Ulysses of Ovid upbraids his

ignorance, that he understood not the shield for which he pleaded; there

was engraven on it plans of cities, and maps of countries, which Ajax

could not comprehend, but looked on them as stupidly as his

fellow-beast, the lion. But, on the other side, your grace has given

yourself the education of his rival; you have studied every spot of

ground in Flanders, which, for these ten years past, has been the scene

of battles, and of sieges. No wonder if you performed your part with

such applause, on a theatre which you understood so well.

If I designed this for a poetical encomium, it were easy to enlarge on

so copious a subject; but, confining myself to the severity of truth,

and to what is becoming me to say, I must not only pass over many

instances of your military skill, but also those of your assiduous

diligence in the war, and of your personal bravery, attended with an

ardent thirst of honour; a long train of generosity; profuseness of

doing good; a soul unsatisfied with all it has done, and an

unextinguished desire of doing more. But all this is matter for your own

historians; I am, as Virgil says, _Spatiis exclusus iniquis_.

Yet, not to be wholly silent of all your charities, I must stay a little

on one action, which preferred the relief of others to the consideration

of yourself. When, in the battle of Landen, your heat of courage (a

fault only pardonable to your youth) had transported you so far before

your friends, that they were unable to follow, much less to succour you;

when you were not only dangerously, but, in all appearance, mortally

wounded; when in that desperate condition you were made prisoner, and

carried to Namur, at that time in possession of the French;[103] then

it was, my lord, that you took a considerable part of what was remitted

to you of your own revenues, and, as a memorable instance of your heroic

charity, put it into the hands of Count Guiscard, who was governor of

the place, to be distributed among your fellow-prisoners. The French

commander, charmed with the greatness of your soul, accordingly

consigned it to the use for which it was intended by the donor; by which

means the lives of so many miserable men were saved, and a comfortable

provision made for their subsistence, who had otherwise perished, had

you not been the companion of their misfortune; or rather sent by

Providence, like another Joseph, to keep out famine from invading those,

whom, in humility, you called your brethren. How happy was it for those

poor creatures, that your grace was made their fellow-sufferer? And how

glorious for you, that you chose to want, rather than not relieve the

wants of others? The heathen poet, in commending the charity of Dido to

the Trojans, spoke like a Christian:

_Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco._

All men, even those of a different interest, and contrary principles,

must praise this action as the most eminent for piety, not only in this

degenerate age, but almost in any of the former; when men were made _de

meliore luto_; when examples of charity were frequent, and when there

were in being,

----_Teucri pulcherrima proles,

Magnanimi heroes, nati melioribus annis._

No envy can detract from this; it will shine in history, and, like

swans, grow whiter the longer it endures; and the name of Ormond will be

more celebrated in his captivity, than in his greatest triumphs.

But all actions of your grace are of a piece, as waters keep the tenor

of their fountains: your compassion is general, and has the same effect

as well on enemies as friends. It is so much in your nature to do good,

that your life is but one continued act of placing benefits on many; as

the sun is always carrying his light to some part or other of the world.

And were it not that your reason guides you where to give, I might

almost say, that you could not help bestowing more than is consisting

with the fortune of a private man, or with the will of any but an

Alexander.

What wonder is it then, that, being born for a blessing to mankind, your

supposed death in that engagement was so generally lamented through the

nation? The concernment for it was as universal as the loss; and though

the gratitude might be counterfeit in some, yet the tears of all were

real: where every man deplored his private part in that calamity, and

even those who had not tasted of your favours, yet built so much on the

fame of your beneficence, that they bemoaned the loss of their

expectations.

This brought the untimely death of your great father into fresh

remembrance,--as if the same decree had passed on two short successive

generations of the virtuous; and I repeated to myself the same verses

which I had formerly applied to him:

_Ostendunt terris hunc tantum fata, neque ultra

Esse sinent._

But, to the joy not only of all good men, but mankind in general, the

unhappy omen took not place. You are still living, to enjoy the

blessings and applause of all the good you have performed, the prayers

of multitudes whom you have obliged, for your long prosperity, and that

your power of doing generous and charitable actions may be as extended

as your will; which is by none more zealously desired than by

Your Grace's most humble,

Most obliged, and

Most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 98: James, second Duke of Ormond, was eldest son of the

gallant Earl of Ossory, and grandson to the great Duke of Ormond, to

whose honours he succeeded in 1688. He was first married to Lady Anne

Hyde, daughter of Lawrence Earl of Rochester; and, upon her death, to

Lady Mary Somerset, second daughter of the Duke of Beaufort. The Duke of

Ormond was favoured by King William, but attained still higher power and

influence during the reign of Queen Anne, especially in her later years,

when he entered into all the views of her Tory administration. Upon the

accession of George I, he was impeached of high treason, and consulted

his safety by flying abroad. He died in Spain in 1746.

The tales which follow, with the various translations marked in the

preface, were first published in 1700 in one volume folio.]

[Footnote 99: See Vol. XVII. p. 1.]

[Footnote 100: See the passage in "Absalom and Achitophel," Vol. IX. p.

242. and the notes on that poem, pages 294-301.]

[Footnote 101: This character of the unfortunate nobleman was not

exaggerated. When the impeachment against him was moved, Hutchinson,

Jekyll, and many others, gave a splendid testimony to his private

virtues.]

[Footnote 102: P. Valerius Poplicola, the third Roman consul; the same

who caused the fasces, the emblems of consular dignity, to be lowered

before the common people.]

[Footnote 103: In the bloody battle of Landen, fought on 29th July,

1693, the Duke of Ormond was in that brigade of English horse which King

William led in person to support his right wing of cavalry. The Duke

charged at the head of a squadron of Lumley's regiment, received several

wounds, and had his horse shot under him. He was about to be cut to

pieces, when he was rescued by a gentleman of the gardes-du-corps, and

made prisoner. King William lost the day, after exhibiting prodigies of

conduct and valour.]

PREFACE

PREFIXED TO

THE FABLES.

It is with a poet, as with a man who designs to build, and is very

exact, as he supposes, in casting up the cost beforehand; but, generally

speaking, he is mistaken in his account, and reckons short in the

expence he first intended. He alters his mind as the work proceeds, and

will have this or that convenience more, of which he had not thought

when he began. So has it happened to me; I have built a house, where I

intended but a lodge; yet with better success than a certain nobleman,

who, beginning with a dog-kennel, never lived to finish the palace he

had contrived.[104]

From translating the First of Homer's "Iliads," (which I intended as an

essay to the whole work,) I proceeded to the translation of the Twelfth

Book of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," because it contains, among other things,

the causes, the beginning, and ending, of the Trojan war. Here I ought

in reason to have stopped; but the speeches of Ajax and Ulysses lying

next in my way, I could not balk them. When I had compassed them, I was

so taken with the former part of the Fifteenth Book, which is the

masterpiece of the whole "Metamorphoses," that I enjoined myself the

pleasing task of rendering it into English. And now I found, by the

number of my verses, that they began to swell into a little volume;

which gave me an occasion of looking backward on some beauties of my

author, in his former books: There occurred to me the "Hunting of the

Boar," "Cinyras and Myrrha," the good-natured story of "Baucis and

Philemon," with the rest, which I hope I have translated closely enough,

and given them the same turn of verse which they had in the

original;[105] and this I may say, without vanity, is not the talent of

every poet. He who has arrived the nearest to it, is the ingenious and

learned Sandys, the best versifier of the former age; if I may properly

call it by that name, which was the former part of this concluding

century. For Spenser and Fairfax both flourished in the reign of Queen

Elizabeth; great masters in our language, and who saw much farther into

the beauties of our numbers, than those who immediately followed them.

Milton was the poetical son of Spenser, and Mr Waller of Fairfax; for we

have our lineal descents and clans as well as other families. Spenser

more than once insinuates, that the soul of Chaucer was transfused into

his body;[106] and that he was begotten by him two hundred years after

his decease. Milton has acknowledged to me, that Spenser was his

original; and many besides myself have heard our famous Waller own, that

he derived the harmony of his numbers from "Godfrey of Bulloigne," which

was turned into English by Mr Fairfax.[107]

But to return. Having done with Ovid for this time, it came into my

mind, that our old English poet, Chaucer, in many things resembled him,

and that with no disadvantage on the side of the modern author, as I

shall endeavour to prove when I compare them; and as I am, and always

have been, studious to promote the honour of my native country, so I

soon resolved to put their merits to the trial, by turning some of the

"Canterbury Tales" into our language, as it is now refined; for by this

means, both the poets being set in the same light, and dressed in the

same English habit, story to be compared with story, a certain judgment

may be made betwixt them by the reader, without obtruding my opinion on

him. Or, if I seem partial to my countryman and predecessor in the

laurel, the friends of antiquity are not few; and, besides many of the

learned, Ovid has almost all the beaux, and the whole fair sex, his

declared patrons. Perhaps I have assumed somewhat more to myself than

they allow me, because I have adventured to sum up the evidence; but the

readers are the jury, and their privilege remains entire, to decide

according to the merits of the cause; or, if they please, to bring it to

another hearing before some other court. In the mean time, to follow the

thread of my discourse, (as thoughts, according to Mr Hobbes, have

always some connection,) so from Chaucer I was led to think on Boccace,

who was not only his contemporary, but also pursued the same studies;

wrote novels in prose, and many works in verse; particularly is said to

have invented the octave rhyme, or stanza of eight lines, which ever

since has been maintained by the practice of all Italian writers, who

are, or at least assume the title of heroic poets. He and Chaucer, among

other things, had this in common, that they refined their

mother-tongues; but with this difference, that Dante had begun to file

their language, at least in verse, before the time of Boccace, who

likewise received no little help from his master Petrarch; but the

reformation of their prose was wholly owing to Boccace himself, who is

yet the standard of purity in the Italian tongue, though many of his

phrases are become obsolete, as, in process of time, it must needs

happen. Chaucer (as you have formerly been told by our learned Mr

Rymer[108]) first adorned and amplified our barren tongue from the

Provençal, which was then the most polished of all the modern languages;

but this subject has been copiously treated by that great critic, who

deserves no little commendation from us his countrymen. For these

reasons of time, and resemblance of genius, in Chaucer and Boccace, I

resolved to join them in my present work; to which I have added some

original papers of my own, which, whether they are equal or inferior to

my other poems, an author is the most improper judge; and therefore I

leave them wholly to the mercy of the reader. I will hope the best, that

they will not be condemned; but if they should, I have the excuse of an

old gentleman, who, mounting on horseback before some ladies, when I was

present, got up somewhat heavily, but desired of the fair spectators,

that they would count fourscore and eight before they judged him. By the

mercy of God, I am already come within twenty years of his number; a

cripple in my limbs,--but what decays are in my mind the reader must

determine. I think myself as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my

soul, excepting only my memory, which is not impaired to any great

degree; and if I lose not more of it, I have no great reason to

complain. What judgment I had, increases rather than diminishes; and

thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my

only difficulty is to chuse or to reject, to run them into verse, or to

give them the other harmony of prose: I have so long studied and

practised both, that they are grown into a habit, and become familiar to

me. In short, though I may lawfully plead some part of the old

gentleman's excuse, yet I will reserve it till I think I have greater

need, and ask no grains of allowance for the faults of this my present

work, but those which are given of course to human frailty. I will not

trouble my reader with the shortness of time in which I writ it, or the

several intervals of sickness. They who think too well of their own

performances, are apt to boast in their prefaces how little time their

works have cost them, and what other business of more importance

interfered; but the reader will be as apt to ask the question, why they

allowed not a longer time to make their works more perfect? and why they

had so despicable an opinion of their judges, as to thrust their

indigested stuff upon them, as if they deserved no better?

With this account of my present undertaking, I conclude the first part

of this discourse: in the second part, as at a second sitting, though I

alter not the draught, I must touch the same features over again, and

change the dead-colouring of the whole. In general I will only say, that

I have written nothing which savours of immorality or profaneness; at

least, I am not conscious to myself of any such intention. If there

happen to be found an irreverent expression, or a thought too wanton,

they are crept into my verses through my inadvertency. If the searchers

find any in the cargo, let them be staved or forfeited, like

counterbanded goods; at least, let their authors be answerable for them,

as being but imported merchandize, and not of my own manufacture. On the

other side, I have endeavoured to chuse such fables, both ancient and

modern, as contain in each of them some instructive moral; which I could

prove by induction, but the way is tedious, and they leap foremost into

sight, without the reader's trouble of looking after them. I wish I

could affirm, with a safe conscience, that I had taken the same care in

all my former writings; for it must be owned, that supposing verses are

never so beautiful or pleasing, yet, if they contain any thing which

shocks religion or good manners, they are at best what Horace says of

good numbers without good sense, _Versus inopes rerum, nugæque canoræ_.

Thus far, I hope, I am right in court, without renouncing to my other

right of self-defence, where I have been wrongfully accused, and my

sense wire-drawn into blasphemy, or bawdry, as it has often been by a

religious lawyer,[109] in a late pleading against the stage; in which he

mixes truth with falsehood, and has not forgotten the old rule of

calumniating strongly, that something may remain.

I resume the thread of my discourse with the first of my translations,

which was the first "Ilias" of Homer.[110] If it shall please God to

give me longer life, and moderate health, my intentions are to translate

the whole "Ilias;" provided still that I meet with those encouragements

from the public, which may enable me to proceed in my undertaking with

some cheerfulness. And this I dare assure the world beforehand, that I

have found, by trial, Homer a more pleasing task than Virgil, though I

say not the translation will be less laborious; for the Grecian is more

according to my genius than the Latin poet. In the works of the two

authors we may read their manners, and natural inclinations, which are

wholly different. Virgil was of a quiet, sedate temper; Homer was

violent, impetuous, and full of fire. The chief talent of Virgil was

propriety of thoughts, and ornament of words: Homer was rapid in his

thoughts, and took all the liberties, both of numbers and of

expressions, which his language, and the age in which he lived, allowed

him. Homer's invention was more copious, Virgil's more confined; so that

if Homer had not led the way, it was not in Virgil to have begun heroic

poetry; for nothing can be more evident, than that the Roman poem is but

the second part of the "Ilias;" a continuation of the same story, and

the persons already formed. The manners of Æneas are those of Hector,

superadded to those which Homer gave him. The adventures of Ulysses in

the "Odysses," are imitated in the first Six Books of Virgil's "Æneis;"

and though the accidents are not the same, (which would have argued him

of a servile copying, and total barrenness of invention,) yet the seas

were the same in which both the heroes wandered; and Dido cannot be

denied to be the poetical daughter of Calypso. The six latter Books of

Virgil's poem are the four-and-twenty "Iliads" contracted; a quarrel

occasioned by a lady, a single combat, battles fought, and a town

besieged. I say not this in derogation to Virgil, neither do I

contradict any thing which I have formerly said in his just praise; for

his episodes are almost wholly of his own invention, and the form which

he has given to the telling makes the tale his own, even though the

original story had been the same. But this proves, however, that Homer

taught Virgil to design; and if invention be the first virtue of an epic

poet, then the Latin poem can only be allowed the second place. Mr

Hobbes, in the preface to his own bald translation of the "Ilias,"

(studying poetry as he did mathematics, when it was too late,) Mr

Hobbes,[111] I say, begins the praise of Homer where he should have

ended it. He tells us, that the first beauty of an epic poem consists in

diction; that is, in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers. Now

the words are the colouring of the work, which, in the order of nature,

is last to be considered; the design, the disposition, the manners, and

the thoughts, are all before it: where any of those are wanting or

imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in the imitation of human life,

which is in the very definition of a poem. Words, indeed, like glaring

colours, are the first beauties that arise, and strike the sight; but,

if the draught be false or lame, the figures ill disposed, the manners

obscure or inconsistent, or the thoughts unnatural, then the finest

colours are but daubing, and the piece is a beautiful monster at the

best. Neither Virgil nor Homer were deficient in any of the former

beauties; but in this last, which is expression, the Roman poet is at

least equal to the Grecian, as I have said elsewhere: supplying the

poverty of his language by his musical ear, and by his diligence.

But to return. Our two great poets being so different in their tempers,

one choleric and sanguine, the other phlegmatic and melancholic; that

which makes them excel in their several ways is, that each of them has

followed his own natural inclination, as well in forming the design, as

in the execution of it. The very heroes show their authors: Achilles is

hot, impatient, revengeful,

_Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, &c._

Æneas patient, considerate, careful of his people, and merciful to his

enemies; ever submissive to the will of heaven:

----_quò fata trahunt retrahuntque, sequamur._

I could please myself with enlarging on this subject, but am forced to

defer it to a fitter time. From all I have said, I will only draw this

inference, that the action of Homer, being more full of vigour than

that of Virgil, according to the temper of the writer, is of consequence

more pleasing to the reader. One warms you by degrees; the other sets

you on fire all at once, and never intermits his heat. It is the same

difference which Longinus makes betwixt the effects of eloquence in

Demosthenes and Tully; one persuades, the other commands. You never cool

while you read Homer, even not in the Second Book (a graceful flattery

to his countrymen); but he hastens from the ships, and concludes not

that book till he has made you amends by the violent playing of a new

machine. From thence he hurries on his action with variety of events,

and ends it in less compass than two months. This vehemence of his, I

confess, is more suitable to my temper; and, therefore, I have

translated his First Book with greater pleasure than any part of Virgil;

but it was not a pleasure without pains. The continual agitations of the

spirits must needs be a weakening of any constitution, especially in

age; and many pauses are required for refreshment betwixt the heats; the

"Ilias," of itself, being a third part longer than all Virgil's works

together.

This is what I thought needful in this place to say of Homer. I proceed

to Ovid and Chaucer; considering the former only in relation to the

latter. With Ovid ended the golden age of the Roman tongue; from Chaucer

the purity of the English tongue began. The manners of the poets were

not unlike. Both of them were well-bred, well-natured, amorous, and

libertine, at least in their writings; it may be, also in their lives.

Their studies were the same,--philosophy and philology. Both of them

were knowing in astronomy; of which Ovid's "Books of the Roman Feasts,"

and Chaucer's "Treatise of the Astrolabe," are sufficient witnesses. But

Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were Virgil, Horace, Persius,

and Manilius. Both writ with wonderful facility and clearness; neither

were great inventors: for Ovid only copied the Grecian fables, and most

of Chaucer's stories were taken from his Italian contemporaries, or

their predecessors. Boccace his "Decameron" was first published; and

from thence our Englishman has borrowed many of his "Canterbury Tales."

Yet that of "Palamon and Arcite" was written, in all probability, by

some Italian wit, in a former age as I shall prove hereafter. The tale

of "Grisilde" was the invention of Petrarch; by him sent to Boccace,

from whom it came to Chaucer.[112] "Troilus and Cressida" was also

written by a Lombard author,[113] but much amplified by our English

translator, as well as beautified; the genius of our countrymen in

general, being rather to improve an invention than to invent themselves,

as is evident not only in our poetry, but in many of our

manufactures.--I find I have anticipated already, and taken up from

Boccace before I come to him: but there is so much less behind; and I am

of the temper of most kings, who love to be in debt, are all for present

money, no matter how they pay it afterwards: besides, the nature of a

preface is rambling, never wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have

learned from the practice of honest Montaigne, and return at my pleasure

to Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say.

Both of them built on the inventions of other men; yet since Chaucer had

something of his own, as "The Wife of Bath's Tale," "The Cock and the

Fox,"[114] which I have translated, and some others, I may justly give

our countryman the precedence in that part; since I can remember nothing

of Ovid which was wholly his. Both of them understood the manners; under

which name I comprehend the passions, and, in a larger sense, the

descriptions of persons, and their very habits. For an example, I see

Baucis and Philemon as perfectly before me, as if some ancient painter

had drawn them; and all the Pilgrims in the "Canterbury Tales," their

humours, their features, and the very dress, as distinctly as if I had

supped with them at the Tabard[115] in Southwark. Yet even there, too,

the figures of Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better light;

which though I have not time to prove, yet I appeal to the reader, and

am sure he will clear me from partiality.--The thoughts and words remain

to be considered, in the comparison of the two poets, and I have saved

myself one half of that labour, by owning that Ovid lived when the Roman

tongue was in its meridian; Chaucer, in the dawning of our language:

therefore that part of the comparison stands not on an equal foot, any

more than the diction of Ennius and Ovid, or of Chaucer and our present

English. The words are given up, as a post not to be defended in our

poet, because he wanted the modern art of fortifying. The thoughts

remain to be considered; and they are to be measured only by their

propriety; that is, as they flow more or less naturally from the persons

described, on such and such occasions. The vulgar judges, which are nine

parts in ten of all nations, who call conceits and jingles wit, who see

Ovid full of them, and Chaucer altogether without them, will think me

little less than mad for preferring the Englishman to the Roman. Yet,

with their leave, I must presume to say, that the things they admire

are only glittering trifles, and so far from being witty, that in a

serious poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. Would any

man, who is ready to die for love, describe his passion like Narcissus?

Would he think of _inopem me copia fecit_, and a dozen more of such

expressions, poured on the neck of one another, and signifying all the

same thing? If this were wit, was this a time to be witty, when the poor

wretch was in the agony of death? This is just John Littlewit, in

"Bartholomew Fair," who had a conceit (as he tells you) left him in his

misery; a miserable conceit. On these occasions the poet should

endeavour to raise pity; but, instead of this, Ovid is tickling you to

laugh. Virgil never made use of such machines when he was moving you to

commiserate the death of Dido: he would not destroy what he was

building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his love, and unjust in the

pursuit of it; yet, when he came to die, he made him think more

reasonably: he repents not of his love, for that had altered his

character; but acknowledges the injustice of his proceedings, and

resigns Emilia to Palamon. What would Ovid have done on this occasion?

He would certainly have made Arcite witty on his death-bed;--he had

complained he was farther off from possession, by being so near, and a

thousand such boyisms, which Chaucer rejected as below the dignity of

the subject. They who think otherwise, would, by the same reason, prefer

Lucan and Ovid to Homer and Virgil, and Martial to all four of them. As

for the turn of words, in which Ovid particularly excels all poets, they

are sometimes a fault, and sometimes a beauty, as they are used properly

or improperly; but in strong passions always to be shunned, because

passions are serious, and will admit no playing. The French have a high

value for them; and, I confess, they are often what they call delicate,

when they are introduced with judgment; but Chaucer writ with more

simplicity, and followed nature more closely than to use them.[116] I

have thus far, to the best of my knowledge, been an upright judge

betwixt the parties in competition, not meddling with the design nor the

disposition of it; because the design was not their own; and in the

disposing of it they were equal.--It remains that I say somewhat of

Chaucer in particular.

In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so I hold him

in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer, or the

Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good sense; learned in all

sciences; and, therefore, speaks properly on all subjects. As he knew

what to say, so he knows also when to leave off; a continence which is

practised by few writers, and scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting

Virgil and Horace. One of our late great poets[117] is sunk in his

reputation, because he could never forgive any conceit which came in his

way; but swept, like a drag-net, great and small. There was plenty

enough, but the dishes were ill sorted; whole pyramids of sweet-meats

for boys and women, but little of solid meat for men. All this proceeded

not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment. Neither did he want

that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets, but only

indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and perhaps knew it was a

fault, but hoped the reader would not find it. For this reason, though

he must always be thought a great poet, he is no longer esteemed a good

writer; and for ten impressions, which his works have had in so many

successive years, yet at present a hundred books are scarcely purchased

once a twelvemonth; for, as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat

profanely, "Not being of God, he could not stand."

Chaucer followed nature every where, but was never so bold to go beyond

her; and there is a great difference of being _poeta_ and _nimis poeta_,

if we may believe Catullus, as much as betwixt a modest behaviour and

affectation. The verse of Chaucer, I confess, is not harmonious to us;

but it is like the eloquence of one whom Tacitus commends, it was

_auribus istius temporis accommodata_. They who lived with him, and some

time after him, thought it musical; and it continues so, even in our

judgment, if compared with the numbers of Lidgate and Gower, his

contemporaries:--there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it,

which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. It is true, I cannot

go so far as he[118] who published the last edition of him; for he would

make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there were really

ten syllables in a verse where we find but nine: but this opinion is not

worth confuting; it is so gross and obvious an error, that common sense

(which is a rule in every thing but matters of faith and revelation)

must convince the reader, that equality of numbers, in every verse which

we call heroic, was either not known, or not always practised, in

Chaucer's age. It were an easy matter to produce some thousands of his

verses, which are lame for want of half a foot, and sometimes a whole

one, and which no pronunciation can make otherwise. We can only say,

that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is brought

to perfection at the first. We must be children before we grow men.

There was an Ennius, and in process of time a Lucilius, and a Lucretius,

before Virgil and Horace; even after Chaucer there was a Spenser, a

Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller and Denham were in being; and our

numbers were in their nonage till these last appeared. I need say little

of his parentage, life, and fortunes; they are to be found at large in

all the editions of his Works. He was employed abroad, and favoured, by

Edward III., Richard II., and Henry IV., and was poet, as I suppose, to

all three of them.[119] In Richard's time, I doubt, he was a little dipt

in the rebellion of the Commons;[120] and being brother-in-law to John

of Gaunt, it was no wonder if he followed the fortunes of that family;

and was well with Henry IV. when he had deposed his predecessor. Neither

is it to be admired, that Henry, who was a wise as well as a valiant

prince, who claimed by succession, and was sensible that his title was

not sound, but was rightfully in Mortimer, who had married the heir of

York; it was not to be admired, I say, if that great politician should

be pleased to have the greatest wit of those times in his interests, and

to be the trumpet of his praises. Augustus had given him the example, by

the advice of Mæcenas, who recommended Virgil and Horace to him; whose

praises helped to make him popular while he was alive, and after his

death have made him precious to posterity. As for the religion of our

poet, he seems to have some little bias towards the opinions of

Wickliffe, after John of Gaunt his patron; somewhat of which appears in

the tale of "Pierce Plowman:"[121] yet I cannot blame him for inveighing

so sharply against the vices of the clergy in his age: their pride,

their ambition, their pomp, their avarice, their worldly interest,

deserved the lashes which he gave them, both in that, and in most of his

"Canterbury Tales." Neither has his contemporary Boccace spared them:

Yet both those poets lived in much esteem with good and holy men in

orders; for the scandal which is given by particular priests' reflects

not on the sacred function. Chaucer's Monk, his Canon, and his Friar,

took not from the character of his Good Parson. A satirical poet is the

check of the laymen on bad priests. We are only to take care, that we

involve not the innocent with the guilty in the same condemnation. The

good cannot be too much honoured, nor the bad too coarsely used; for the

corruption of the best becomes the worst. When a clergyman is whipped,

his gown is first taken off, by which the dignity of his order is

secured.[122] If he be wrongfully accused, he has his action of

slander; and it is at the poet's peril if he transgress the law. But

they will tell us, that all kind of satire, though never so well

deserved by particular priests, yet brings the whole order into

contempt. Is then the peerage of England any thing dishonoured when a

peer suffers for his treason? If he be libelled, or any way defamed, he

has his _scandulum magnatum_ to punish the offender. They who use this

kind of argument, seem to be conscious to themselves of somewhat which

has deserved the poet's lash, and are less concerned for their public

capacity than for their private; at least there is pride at the bottom

of their reasoning. If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged

among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say

the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we

be sure that they will be impartial judges? How far I may be allowed to

speak my opinion in this case, I know not; but I am sure a dispute of

this nature caused mischief in abundance betwixt a king of England and

an archbishop of Canterbury;[123] one standing up for the laws of his

land, and the other for the honour, as he called it, of God's church;

which ended in the murder of the prelate, and in the whipping of his

majesty from post to pillar for his penance. The learned and ingenious

Dr Drake[124] has saved me the labour of enquiring into the esteem and

reverence which the priests have had of old; and I would rather extend

than diminish any part of it: yet I must needs say, that when a priest

provokes me without any occasion given him, I have no reason, unless it

be the charity of a Christian, to forgive him: _prior læsit_ is

justification sufficient in the civil law. If I answer him in his own

language, self-defence, I am sure, must be allowed me; and if I carry it

farther, even to a sharp recrimination, somewhat may be indulged to

human frailty. Yet my resentment has not wrought so far, but that I have

followed Chaucer in his character of a holy man, and have enlarged on

that subject with some pleasure; reserving to myself the right, if I

shall think fit hereafter, to describe another sort of priests, such as

are more easily to be found than the Good Parson; such as have given the

last blow to Christianity in this age, by a practice so contrary to

their doctrine. But this will keep cold till another time. In the mean

while, I take up Chaucer where I left him.

He must have been a man of a most wonderful comprehensive nature,

because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the

compass of his "Canterbury Tales" the various manners and humours (as we

now call them) of the whole English nation, in his age. Not a single

character has escaped him. All his pilgrims are severally distinguished

from each other; and not only in their inclinations, but in their very

physiognomies and persons. Baptista Porta[125] could not have described

their natures better, than by the marks which the poet gives them. The

matter and manner of their tales, and of their telling, are so suited to

their different educations, humours, and callings, that each of them

would be improper in any other mouth. Even the grave and serious

characters are distinguished by their several sorts of gravity: their

discourses are such as belong to their age, their calling, and their

breeding; such as are becoming of them, and of them only. Some of his

persons are vicious, and some virtuous; some are unlearned, or (as

Chaucer calls them) lewd, and some are learned. Even the ribaldry of the

low characters is different: the Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook, are

several men, and distinguished from each other as much as the mincing

Lady-Prioress and the broad-speaking, gap-toothed,[126] Wife of Bath.

But enough of this; there is such a variety of game springing up before

me, that I am distracted in my choice, and know not which to follow. It

is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's

plenty. We have our forefathers and great-grand-dames all before us, as

they were in Chaucer's days: their general characters are still

remaining in mankind, and even in England, though they are called by

other names than those of monks, and friars, and canons, and

lady-abbesses, and nuns; for mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost

out of nature, though every thing is altered. May I have leave to do

myself the justice, (since my enemies will do me none,[127] and are so

far from granting me to be a good poet, that they will not allow me so

much as to be a Christian, or a moral man,) may I have leave, I say, to

inform my reader, that I have confined my choice to such tales of

Chaucer as savour nothing of immodesty. If I had desired more to please

than to instruct, the Reeve, the Miller, the Shipman, the Merchant, the

Sumner, and, above all, the Wife of Bath, in the prologue to her tale,

would have procured me as many friends and readers, as there are beaux

and ladies of pleasure in the town. But I will no more offend against

good manners. I am sensible, as I ought to be, of the scandal I have

given by my loose writings; and make what reparation I am able, by this

public acknowledgment. If any thing of this nature, or of profaneness,

be crept into these poems, I am so far from defending it, that I disown

it, _totum hoc indictum volo_. Chaucer makes another manner of apology

for his broad speaking, and Boccace makes the like; but I will follow

neither of them. Our countryman, in the end of his characters, before

the "Canterbury Tales," thus excuses the ribaldry, which is very gross

in many of his novels:

But firste, I praie you of your curtesie,

That ye ne arette it not my vilanie,

Though that I plainly speke in this matere,

To tellen you hir wordes, and hir chere:

Ne though I speke hir wordes proprely,

For this ye knowen al so well as I,

Who so shall telle a tale after a man,

He moste reherse as neighe as ever he can;

Everich word, if it be in his charge,

All speke he, never so rudely and so large:

Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,

Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe:

He may not spare, although he were his brother,

He moste as wel sayn o word as an other.

Crist spake himself ful brode in holy writ,

And wel ye wote no vilanie is it,

Eke Plato sayeth, who so can him rede,

The wordes moste ben cosin to the dede.

Yet if a man should have inquired of Boccace or of Chaucer, what need

they had of introducing such characters, where obscene words were proper

in their mouths, but very indecent to be heard? I know not what answer

they could have made; for that reason, such tale shall be left untold by

me. You have here a specimen of Chaucer's language, which is so

obsolete, that his sense is scarce to be understood; and you have

likewise more than one example of his unequal numbers, which were

mentioned before. Yet many of his verses consist of ten syllables, and

the words not much behind our present English: as for example, these two

lines, in the description of the carpenter's young wife:

Winsing she was, as is a jolly colt,

Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.

I have almost done with Chaucer, when I have answered some objections

relating to my present work. I find some people are offended that I have

turned these tales into modern English; because they think them unworthy

of my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fashioned wit, not worthy

reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester[128] say, that

Mr Cowley himself was of that opinion; who, having read him over at my

lord's request, declared he had no taste of him. I dare not advance my

opinion against the judgment of so great an author; but I think it fair,

however, to leave the decision to the public. Mr Cowley was too modest

to set up for a dictator; and being shocked perhaps with his old style,

never examined into the depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I confess, is

a rough diamond, and must first be polished, ere he shines. I deny not

likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always

of a piece; but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater

moment. Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and

knows not when he has said enough. But there are more great wits beside

Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted.

An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. Having

observed this redundancy in Chaucer, (as it is an easy matter for a man

of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater,) I have not tied

myself to a literal translation; but have often omitted what I judged

unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better

thoughts. I have presumed farther, in some places, and added somewhat of

my own where I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his

thoughts their true lustre, for want of words in the beginning of our

language. And to this I was the more emboldened, because (if I may be

permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul congenial to his,

and that I had been conversant in the same studies. Another poet, in

another age, may take the same liberty with my writings; if at least

they live long enough to deserve correction. It was also necessary

sometimes to restore the sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled in

the errors of the press. Let this example suffice at present: in the

story of Palamon and Arcite, where the temple of Diana is described, you

find these verses, in all the editions of our author:

Ther saw I Dane yturned til a tree,

I mene not hire the goddesse Diane,

But Venus daughter, which that hight Dane.

which, after a little consideration, I knew was to be reformed into this

sense,--that Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, was turned into a

tree.[129] I durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future

Milbourne should arise, and say, I varied from my author, because I

understood him not.

But there are other judges, who think I ought not to have translated

Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion: they suppose there

is a certain veneration due to his old language; and that it is little

less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of

opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this

transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be

lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. Of this opinion

was that excellent person, whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester,

who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised him. My lord dissuaded

me from this attempt, (for I was thinking of it some years before his

death,) and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my

undertaking while he lived, in deference to him: yet my reason was not

convinced with what he urged against it. If the first end of a writer be

to be understood, then, as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts

must grow obscure:

_Multa renascentur, quæ jam cecidere; cadentque

Quæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus,

Quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi._

When an ancient word, for its sound and significancy, deserves to be

revived, I have that reasonable veneration for antiquity to restore it.

All beyond this is superstition. Words are not like landmarks, so

sacred as never to be removed; customs are changed, and even statutes

are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were

enacted. As for the other part of the argument,--that his thoughts will

lose of their original beauty by the innovation of words,--in the first

place, not only their beauty, but their being is lost, where they are no

longer understood, which is the present case. I grant that something

must be lost in all transfusion, that is, in all translations; but the

sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at least be maimed,

when it is scarce intelligible, and that but to a few. How few are

there, who can read Chaucer, so as to understand him perfectly? And if

imperfectly, then with less profit, and no pleasure. It is not for the

use of some old Saxon friends, that I have taken these pains with him:

let them neglect my version, because they have no need of it. I made it

for their sakes, who understand sense and poetry as well as they, when

that poetry and sense is put into words which they understand. I will go

farther, and dare to add, that what beauties I lose in some places, I

give to others which had them not originally: but in this I may be

partial to myself; let the reader judge, and I submit to his decision.

Yet I think I have just occasion to complain of them, who, because they

understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their countrymen

of the same advantage, and hoard him up, as misers do their grandam

gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from making use

of it. In sum, I seriously protest, that no man ever had, or can have, a

greater veneration for Chaucer than myself. I have translated some part

of his works, only that I might perpetuate his memory, or at least

refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have altered him any where for

the better, I must at the same time acknowledge, that I could have done

nothing without him. _Facile est inventis addere_ is no great

commendation; and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a greater. I

will conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one remark: A

lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of correspondence with some

authors of the fair sex in France, has been informed by them, that

Mademoiselle de Scuderi, who is as old as Sibyl, and inspired like her

by the same god of poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into

modern French.[130] From which I gather, that he has been formerly

translated into the old Provençal; for how she should come to understand

old English, I know not. But the matter of fact being true, it makes me

think that there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain

periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits should be renewed, as

Chaucer is both in France and England. If this be wholly chance, it is

extraordinary; and I dare not call it more, for fear of being taxed with

superstition.

Boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with

Chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies. Both writ

novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue. But the greatest

resemblance of our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and

pleasing way of relating comical adventures, I may pass it over,

because I have translated nothing from Boccace of that nature. In the

serious part of poetry, the advantage is wholly on Chaucer's side; for

though the Englishman has borrowed many tales from the Italian, yet it

appears, that those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but

taken from authors of former ages, and by him only modelled; so that

what there was of invention, in either of them, may be judged equal. But

Chaucer has refined on Boccace, and has mended the stories, which he has

borrowed, in his way of telling; though prose allows more liberty of

thought, and the expression is more easy when unconfined by numbers. Our

countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at disadvantage. I

desire not the reader should take my word; and, therefore, I will set

two of their discourses, on the same subject, in the same light, for

every man to judge betwixt them. I translated Chaucer first, and,

amongst the rest, pitched on the "Wife of Bath's Tale;" not daring, as I

have said, to adventure on her prologue, because it is too

licentious.[131] There Chaucer introduces an old woman, of mean

parentage, whom a youthful knight, of noble blood, was forced to marry,

and consequently loathed her. The crone, being in bed with him, on the

wedding-night, and finding his aversion, endeavours to win his affection

by reason, and speaks a good word for herself, (as who could blame her?)

in hope to mollify the sullen bridegroom. She takes her topics from the

benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity

of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and titles, without inherent

virtue, which is the true nobility. When I had closed Chaucer, I

returned to Ovid, and translated some more of his fables; and, by this

time, had so far forgotten the "Wife of Bath's Tale," that, when I took

up Boccace, unawares I fell on the same argument, of preferring virtue

to nobility of blood and titles, in the story of Sigismunda; which I had

certainly avoided, for the resemblance of the two discourses, if my

memory had not failed me. Let the reader weigh them both; and, if he

thinks me partial to Chaucer, it is in him to right Boccace.

I prefer, in our countryman, far above all his other stories, the noble

poem of "Palamon and Arcite," which is of the epic kind, and perhaps not

much inferior to the Ilias, or the Æneis. The story is more pleasing

than either of them, the manners as perfect, the diction as poetical,

the learning as deep and various, and the disposition full as artful,

only it includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven years at

least: but Aristotle has left undecided the duration of the action,

which yet is easily reduced into the compass of a year, by a narration

of what preceded the return of Palamon to Athens. I had thought, for the

honour of our nation, and more particularly for his, whose laurel,

though unworthy, I have worn after him, that this story was of English

growth, and Chaucer's own: but I was undeceived by Boccace; for,

casually looking on the end of his seventh Giornata, I found Dioneo

(under which name he shadows himself,) and Fiametta, (who represents his

mistress, the natural daughter of Robert, king of Naples,) of whom these

words are spoken:--"_Dioneo e Fiametta gran pezza Eantarono insieme

d'Arcita, e di Palemone_;" by which it appears, that this story was

written before the time of Boccace; but the name of its author being

wholly lost, Chaucer is now become an original; and I question not but

the poem has received many beauties, by passing through his noble

hands.[132] Besides this tale, there is another of his own invention,

after the manner of the Provençals, called "The Flower and the Leaf,"

with which I was so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the

moral, that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader.

As a corollary to this preface, in which I have done justice to others,

I owe somewhat to myself; not that I think it worth my time to enter the

lists with one Milbourne, and one Blackmore, but barely to take notice,

that such men there are, who have written scurrilously against me,

without any provocation. Milbourne, who is in orders, pretends, amongst

the rest, this quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul on priesthood: if

I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part

of the reparation will come to little.[133] Let him be satisfied, that

he shall not be able to force himself upon me for an adversary. I

contemn him too much to enter into competition with him. His own

translations of Virgil have answered his criticisms on mine. If, as they

say, he has declared in print, he prefers the version of Ogilby to mine,

the world has made him the same compliment; for it is agreed, on all

hands, that he writes even below Ogilby. That, you will say, is not

easily to be done; but what cannot Milbourne bring about? I am

satisfied, however, that, while he and I live together, I shall not be

thought the worst poet of the age. It looks, as if I had desired him,

underhand, to write so ill against me; but, upon my honest word, I have

not bribed him to do me this service, and am wholly guiltless of his

pamphlet. It is true, I should be glad if I could persuade him to

continue his good offices, and write such another critique on any thing

of mine; for I find, by experience, he has a great stroke with the

reader, when he condemns any of my poems, to make the world have a

better opinion of them. He has taken some pains with my poetry; but

nobody will be persuaded to take the same with his. If I had taken to

the church, as he affirms, but which was never in my thoughts, I should

have had more sense, if not more grace, than to have turned myself out

of my benefice, by writing libels on my parishioners. But his account of

my manners, and my principles, is of a piece with his cavils and his

poetry; and so I have done with him for ever.

As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his quarrel to me is,

that I was the author of "Absalom and Achitophel," which, he thinks, is

a little hard on his fanatic patrons in London.

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill

is to be spoken of the dead; and, therefore, peace be to the manes of

his "Arthurs."[134] I will only say, that it was not for this noble

knight that I drew the plan of an epic poem on King Arthur, in my

preface to the translation of Juvenal. The guardian angels of kingdoms

were machines too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected

them, as Dares did the whirlbats of Eryx, when they were thrown before

him by Entellus: yet from that preface, he plainly took his hint; for

he began immediately upon the story, though he had the baseness not to

acknowledge his benefactor, but, instead of it, to traduce me in a

libel.

I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he has taxed

me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of

mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or

immorality, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he

be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise,

he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in

the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good

one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that, in many places, he has

perverted my meaning by his glosses, and interpreted my words into

blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides, that he is

too much given to horse-play in his raillery, and comes to battle like a

dictator from the plough. I will not say, "the zeal of God's house has

eaten him up;" but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good

manners and civility. It might also be doubted, whether it were

altogether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding;

perhaps, it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of

ancient and modern plays: a divine might have employed his pains to

better purpose, than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes, whose

examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed, that

he read them not without some pleasure. They, who have written

commentaries on those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have

explained some vices, which, without their interpretation, had been

unknown to modern times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the

former age and us. There is more bawdry in one play of Fletcher's,

called "The Custom of the Country," than in all ours together.[135] Yet

this has been often acted on the stage, in my remembrance. Are the times

so much more reformed now, than they were five-and-twenty years ago? If

they are, I congratulate the amendment of our morals. But I am not to

prejudice the cause of my fellow poets, though I abandon my own defence:

they have some of them answered for themselves; and neither they nor I

can think Mr Collier so formidable an enemy, that we should shun him. He

has lost ground, at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too

far, like the Prince of Condé, at the battle of Senneph:[136] from

immoral plays, to no plays, _ab abusu ad usum, non valet consequentia_.

But, being a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge. As for the

rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels,

that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmore

and Milbourne are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered

to their infamy:

----_Demetri, teque, Tigelli,

Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 104: This was, I suppose, our author's old foe, Villiers, Duke

of Buckingham, the tardy progress of whose great buildings at Cleveden

was often the subject of satire:

"Once more, says fame, for battle he prepares,

And threatens rhymers with a second farce;

But if as long for that as this we stay,

He'll finish Cleveden sooner than his play."

_The Review._

]

[Footnote 105: These translations are to be found in the 12th volume,

being placed after the versions of Ovid's "Epistles."]

[Footnote 106: I cannot find any such passages in Spenser as are here

alluded to.]

[Footnote 107: Edward Fairfax, natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of

Denton in Yorkshire, translated Tasso's celebrated poem, stanza for

stanza, with equal elegance and fidelity. His version, entitled "Godfrey

of Bulloigne, or the Recovery of Jerusalem," was first published in

1600. Collins has paid the original author and translator the following

singular compliment:

"How have I sate, while piped the pensive wind,

To hear thy harp by British Fairfax strung;

Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders that he sung."

_Ode on Highland Superstitions._

]

[Footnote 108: It would seem, from this respectful expression, that our

author's feud with Rymer (See Vol. XI. p. 60. Vol. XII. p. 46.) was now

composed.]

[Footnote 109: Jeremy Collier, whose diatribe against the theatre galled

Dryden severely.]

[Footnote 110: See this version, Vol. XII. p. 357.]

[Footnote 111: The celebrated author of the "Leviathan." Burnet says, he

was esteemed at court as a mathematician, though he had little talent

that way.]

[Footnote 112: In this instance Dryden has inverted the fact. Boccacio

tells the story of Griselda in his "Decameron," which was written about

1160, and Petrarch did not translate it till 1173, the year of his

death, when he executed a Latin version of it. Even then, he mentions it

as a traditional tale, which he had often heard with pleasure. The

original edition of the story is difficult to discover. Noguier, in his

"Histoire de Tholouse," affirms, that this mirror of female patience

actually existed about the year 1103, and Le Grand lays claim to her

history as originally a French fabliau. It seems certain, at least, that

it was not invented by Petrarch, although Chaucer quotes his authority,

probably that he might introduce a panegyric on his departed friend:

"I wol you tell a tale, which that I

Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,

As proved by his wordes, and his werk:

He now is dede, and nailed in his cheste,

I pray to God so geve his soule reste.

Fraunceis Petrark, the laureate poete,

Highte this clerke, whose rhetorik swete

Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie."

_Clerke's Prologue._

]

[Footnote 113: Tyrwhitt has laboured to show, that Boccacio's poem,

called the "Philostrato," contains the original of Chaucer's "Troilus

and Creseide." But Chaucer himself calls his original "Lollius" and the

Book "Trophe;" and I think, with Mr Godwin, that we are not hastily to

conclude that this was an invention, to disguise his pillaging Boccacio,

when we consider the probability of the work, which served as their

common original, being lost in the course of so many ages. See this

question discussed in Godwin's "Life of Chaucer," Vol. I. p 263.]

[Footnote 114: Unquestionably these poems are original as to the mode of

treating them; but, in both cases, Chaucer was contented to adopt the

story of some more ancient tale-teller. The "Wife of Bath's Tale" is

imitated from the "Florent" in Gower, and that probably from the work of

an older minstrel. Or Chaucer may have copied the old tale called the

"Marriage of Sir Gawain," which is probably the corrupted fragment of a

metrical romance. The apologue of "The Cock and the Fox," is to be found

in the "Fables" of Marie of France, who seems to have lived in the reign

of Henry III. of England.]

[Footnote 115: The Tabard was the inn whence Chaucer's pilgrims set

forth on their joyous party to Canterbury, and took its name from the

sign, a herald's coat, or tabard.

It is much to the credit of British painting, that Mr Stothard, of

London, has been able to execute a picture, representing this celebrated

groupe on their journey to Canterbury, with the genius and spirit of a

master, and all the rigid attention to costume that could be expected by

the most severe antiquary.]

[Footnote 116: Dryden seems here to intimate some hankering after those

_Dalilahs of composition_, as he elsewhere calls them, that consisted in

turning and playing upon words.]

[Footnote 117: The famous Cowley, whose metaphysical conceits had

already, it would seem, begun to tarnish the brilliancy of his

reputation.]

[Footnote 118: Thomas Speght's edition of Chaucer was published in 1597

and 1602. The preface contains the passage which Dryden alludes to: "And

for his (Chaucer's) verses, although, in divers places, they seem to us

to stand of unequal measures, yet a skilful reader, who can scan them in

their nature, shall find it otherwise. And if a verse, here and there,

fal out a syllable shorter or longer than another, I rather aret it to

the negligence and rape of Adam Scrivener, (that I may speake as Chaucer

doth) than to any unconning or oversight in the author: For how fearful

he was to have his works miswritten, or his verse mismeasured, may

appeare in the end of his fift booke of "Troylus and Creseide," where he

writeth thus:

"And for there is so great diversitie

In English, and in writing of our tongue,

So pray I God that none miswrite thee,

Ne thee mismetre for defaut of tongue."

By his hasty and inconsiderate contradiction of honest Speght's

panegyric, Dryden has exposed himself to be censured for pronouncing

rashly upon a subject with which he was but imperfectly acquainted. The

learned Tyrwhitt has supported Speght's position with equal pains and

success, and plainly proves, that the apparent inequalities of the rhyme

of Chaucer, arise chiefly from the change in pronunciation since his

time, particularly from a number of words being now pronounced as one

syllable, which in those days were prolonged into two, or as two

syllables which were anciently three. These researches, in the words of

Ellis, "have proved what Dryden denied, viz. that Chaucer's

versification, wherever his genuine text is preserved, was uniformly

correct, although the harmony of his lines has, in many cases, been

obliterated by the changes that have taken place in the mode of

accenting our language."--_Specimens of the Early English Poets_, Vol.

I. p. 209.]

[Footnote 119: Chaucer was doubtless employed and trusted by Edward and

by his grandson, and probably favoured by Henry IV., the son of his

original patron; but if Dryden meant, that he held, during these reigns,

the precise office of poet-laureat, once enjoyed by himself, it is

difficult to suppose that any such had existence.]

[Footnote 120: The rebellion of the Commons was that tumult which took

place under the management of John of Northampton, commonly called John

Cumbertown. Chaucer was forced to fly to Holland, in consequence of

having some concern in that insurrection, and on his return he was

arrested and committed to the Tower. Katherine Swynford, mistress, and

at length wife, to John of Gaunt, was sister of Philippa Rouet, wife of

the poet.]

[Footnote 121: "The Ploughman's Tale" is now generally accounted

spurious. In speaking of it, Dryden inadvertently confounds it with the

work of Robert Langland, a secular priest, well known to collectors by

the title of "Pierce Plowman's Visions." Both poems contain a bitter

satire against the clergy; but that which has been falsely ascribed to

Chaucer, is expressly written in favour of Wickliffe's doctrine. Dryden

probably was sufficiently ready to adopt any authority which seemed to

countenance severity against the churchmen,--a subject upon which he

always flies into declamation.]

[Footnote 122: This ceremony having been only partially performed when

Samuel Johnson, the author of Julian, was thus ignominiously punished,

it was found that the degradation was incomplete, and thus he saved his

benefice.]

[Footnote 123: It is almost unnecessary to mention their names,--Henry

the Second and Thomas a Becket.]

[Footnote 124: Dr James Drake wrote, in answer to Collier, a work

called, "The Ancient and Modern Stage Surveyed, or Mr Collier's View of

the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage set in a true light." 8vo,

1699, p. 348-355.]

[Footnote 125: The famous Italian physiognomist.]

[Footnote 126: _Gat-toothed_, according to Chaucer; meaning nothing more

than _goat-toothed_, which, applied to such a character, has an obvious

meaning. The commentators, however, chose to read _gap-toothed_, as of

more easy explanation.]

[Footnote 127: Alluding here, as elsewhere in the preface, to Jeremy

Collier and Luke Milbourne, who had assailed not only his writings, but

his moral character, with great severity.]

[Footnote 128: To whom "Don Sebastian" is dedicated. See Vol. VII. page

281. He died in 1696-7.]

[Footnote 129: This literal error was corrected by Tyrwhitt, from the

better MSS. of Chaucer, being in fact, not a blunder of the poet, but of

the press.]

[Footnote 130: This lady lived to the age of ninety-four. Her huge

romances, "Artamenes, Clelia, and Cleopatra," were in my childhood still

read in some old-fashioned Scottish families, though now absolutely

forgotten, and in no chance of being revived. Mademoiselle de Scuderi

died about eighteen months after this discourse was written. There is no

reason to think she was seriously engaged in translating Chaucer, whose

works certainly never existed in the old Provençal or Norman French,

into which last they were more likely to have been translated.]

[Footnote 131: Pope, however, modernized this prologue, and, it is said,

some of Chaucer's looser tales, though the latter were published under

the name of Betterton. _Malone_, vol. iv. p. 631.]

[Footnote 132: The allusion, in Boccace, was probably to his own poem,

the "Theseida," a work so scarce, as almost never to have been heard of,

until it was described by Tyrwhitt, in his Essay concerning the

Originals whence Chaucer drew his tales. It contains the whole story of

Palamon and Arcite. But the tale itself was more ancient than the days

of Boccace.]

[Footnote 133: There seems to have been something questionable in

Milbourne's character. Dryden, a little lower down, hints, that he lost

his living, for writing a libel upon his parishioners.]

[Footnote 134: "Prince Arthur," and "King Arthur," two works,

facetiously entitled epic poems, published in 1695 and 1697. In the

preface to the first, occurred the following severe attack upon Dryden,

which is inserted by Mr Malone as illustrative of the passage in the

text.

"Some of these poets, to excuse their guilt, allege for themselves, that

the degeneracy of the age makes their lewd way of writing necessary.

They pretend, the auditors will not be pleased, unless they are thus

entertained from the stage; and to please, they say, is the chief

business of the poet. But this is by no means a just apology. It is not

true, as was said before, that the poet's chief business is to please:

his chief business is to instruct, to make mankind wiser and better;

and, in order to this, his care should be to please and entertain the

audience, with all the wit and art he is master of. Aristotle and

Horace, and all their critics and commentators, all men of wit and

sense, agree, that this is the end of poetry. But they say, it is their

profession to write for the stage; and that poets must starve, if they

will not, in this way, humour the audience; the theatre will be as

unfrequented as the churches, and the poet and the parson equally

neglected. Let the poet, then, abandon his profession, and take up some

honest, lawful, calling; where, joining industry to his great wit, he

may soon get above the complaints of poverty, so common among these

ingenious men, and lie under no necessity of prostituting his wit, to

any such vile purposes as are here censured. This will be a course of

life more profitable and honourable to himself, and more useful to

others. And there are, among these writers, _some, who think they might

have risen to the highest dignities, in other professions, had they

employed their wit in those ways_. It is a mighty dishonour and reproach

to any man that is capable of being useful to the world, in any _liberal

and virtuous_ profession, _to lavish out his life and wit, in

propagating vice and corruption of manners_, and in battering, from the

stage, the strongest entrenchments, and best works, of religion and

virtue. Whoever makes this his choice, when the other was in his power,

may he go off the stage unpitied, _complaining of neglect and poverty,

the just punishments of his irreligion and folly_."]

[Footnote 135: This play is bad enough, yet the assertion seems a strong

one. There can be little pleasure, however, in weighing filth against

filth, so the point may be left undecided.]

[Footnote 136: There is an account of this desperate action, in the

Memoirs of Captain Carleton. The Confederate Army were upon their march

when the Prince of Condé suddenly attacked their rear, which he totally

routed, and then led his forces between the second line of the

Confederates, and their line of baggage, to compel them to a general

action. But the plunder of the baggage occasioned so much delay, that

the van of the Prince of Orange's army had time to rejoin the centre;

and, though the French maintained the action with great vigour, they

were, in the end, compelled to leave the Confederates in possession of

the field of battle. This battle was fought 11th August, 1674.]

PALAMON AND ARCITE;

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.

PALAMON AND ARCITE.

"The Knight's Tale," whether we consider Chaucer's original poem, or the

spirited and animated version of Dryden, is one of the finest pieces of

composition in our language. We have treated of its merits so amply in

the general criticism on Dryden's poetry, that little remains here save

to trace the antiquity of the fable.

The history of Theseus, as, indeed, it is a sort of legend of

knight-errantry, was an early favourite during the middle ages. It is

probable, that the anecdote of Palamon and Arcite was early engrafted

upon the story of the siege of Thebes. But the original from which

Chaucer appears to have immediately derived his materials, is the

"Teseide" of Boccacio, an epic poem, composed in _ottava rima_, of which

Tyrwhitt has given an analysis. The work of Chaucer cannot, however,

properly be termed a translation; on the contrary, the tale has acquired

its most beautiful passages under the hand of the English bard. He

abridged the prolix, and enlarged the poetical, parts of the work;

compressed the whole into one concise and interesting tale; and left us

an example of a beautiful heroic poem, if a work is entitled to that

name which consists only of two thousand lines.

This romantic legend is, by Chaucer, with great propriety, put into the

mouth of the Knight, a distinguished character among the Pilgrims; who,

in their journey to the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, had agreed to

beguile the way by telling each a tale in turn. Hence the second title

of "The Knight's Tale."

TO

HER GRACE

THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND.[137]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF

PALAMON AND ARCITE.

MADAM,

The bard, who first adorned our native tongue,

Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song;

Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,

And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:

He matched their beauties, where they most excel;

Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond, to behold

What power the charms of beauty had of old;

Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,

Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own.

If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,

And poets can divine each other's thought,

The fairest nymph before his eyes he set,

And then the fairest was Plantagenet;[138]

Who three contending princes made her prize,

And ruled the rival nations with her eyes;

Who left immortal trophies of her fame,

And to the noblest order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,

You keep her conquests, and extend your own:

As when the stars in their ethereal race, }

At length have rolled around the liquid space, }

At certain periods they resume their place, }

From the same point of heaven their course advance,

And move in measures of their former dance;

Thus, after length of ages, she returns,

Restored in you, and the same place adorns;

Or you perform her office in the sphere,

Born of her blood, and make a new platonic year.[139]

O true Plantagenet, O race divine,

(For beauty still is fatal to the line,)

Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view,

Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;

Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right,

Your noble Palamon had been the knight;

And conquering Theseus from his side had sent

Your generous lord, to guide the Theban government.

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see

A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.

Already have the Fates your path prepared,

And sure presage your future sway declared:

When westward, like the sun, you took your way,

And from benighted Britain bore the day,

Blue Triton gave the signal from the shore,

The ready Nereids heard, and swam before

To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale

But just inspired, and gently swelled the sail:

Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand[140] }

Heaved up the lightened keel, and sunk the sand, }

And steered the sacred vessel safe to land. }

The land, if not restrained, had met your way,

Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea.[141]

Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored,

In you, the pledge of her expected lord;

Due to her isle, a venerable name;

His father and his grandsire known to fame;

Awed by that house, accustomed to command, }

The sturdy kerns in due subjection stand, }

Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand, }

At your approach, they crowded to the port;

And scarcely landed, you create a court:

As Ormond's harbinger[142] to you they run,

For Venus is the promise of the sun.

The waste of civil wars, their towns destroyed,

Pales unhonoured, Ceres unemployed,

Were all forgot; and one triumphant day

Wiped all the tears of three campaigns away.[143]

Blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought,

So mighty recompence your beauty brought.

As when the dove returning bore the mark

Of earth restored to the long-labouring ark,

The relics of mankind, secure of rest, }

Ope'd every window to receive the guest, }

And the fair bearer of the message blessed: }

So, when you came, with loud repeated cries, }

The nation took an omen from your eyes, }

And God advanced his rainbow in the skies, }

To sign inviolable peace restored;

The saints, with solemn shouts, proclaimed the new accord.

When at your second coming you appear,

(For I foretel that millenary year,)

The sharpened share shall vex the soil no more,

But earth unbidden shall produce her store;

The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile,

And heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.

Heaven, from all ages, has reserved for you

That happy clime, which venom never knew;

Or if it had been there, your eyes alone

Have power to chase all poison, but their own.

Now in this interval, which fate has cast

Betwixt your future glories and your past,

This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn;

While England celebrates your safe return,

By which you seem the seasons to command,

And bring our summers back to their forsaken land.

The vanquished isle our leisure must attend, }

Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; }

Nor can we spare you long, though often we may lend. }

The dove was twice employed abroad, before

The world was dried, and she returned no more.

Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger,

New from her sickness,[144] to that northern air;

Rest here a while your lustre to restore,

That they may see you, as you shone before;

For yet, the eclipse not wholly past, you wade

Through some remains, and dimness of a shade.

A subject in his prince may claim a right,

Nor suffer him with strength impaired to fight;

Till force returns, his ardour we restrain,

And curb his warlike wish to cross the main.

Now past the danger, let the learned begin

The inquiry, where disease could enter in;

How those malignant atoms forced their way;

What in the faultless frame they found to make their prey,

Where every element was weighed so well, }

That heaven alone, who mixed the mass, could tell }

Which of the four ingredients could rebel; }

And where, imprisoned in so sweet a cage,

A soul might well be pleased to pass an age.

And yet the fine materials made it weak;

Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break;

Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire, }

And, forced from that fair temple to retire, }

Profanely set the holy place on fire. }

In vain your lord, like young Vespasian,[145] mourned,

When the fierce flames the sanctuary burned;

And I prepared to pay in verses rude

A most detested act of gratitude:

Even this had been your elegy, which now

Is offered for your health, the table of my vow.

Your angel sure our Morley's[146] mind inspired,

To find the remedy your ill required;

As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,

Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy:

Or heaven, which had such over-cost bestowed,

As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,

So liked the frame, he would not work anew,

To save the charges of another you.

Or by his middle science did he steer, }

And saw some great contingent good appear }

Well worth a miracle to keep you here: }

And for that end, preserved the precious mould,

Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;

And meditated, in his better mind,

An heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind.

Blest be the power, which has at once restored

The hopes of lost succession to your lord;

Joy to the first and last of each degree, }

Virtue to courts, and, what I longed to see, }

To you the Graces, and the Muse to me. }

O daughter of the rose, whose cheeks unite

The differing titles of the red and white;

Who heaven's alternate beauty well display,

The blush of morning, and the milky way;

Whose face is paradise, but fenced from sin;

For God in either eye has placed a cherubin.

All is your lord's alone; even absent, he

Employs the care of chaste Penelope.

For him you waste in tears your widowed hours;

For him your curious needle paints the flowers:

Such works of old imperial dames were taught;

Such, for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought.

The soft recesses of your hours improve

The three fair pledges of your happy love:

All other parts of pious duty done,

You owe your Ormond nothing but a son;[147]

To fill in future times his father's place,

And wear the garter of his mother's race.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 137: Lady Mary Somerset, second wife of the Duke of Ormond, to

whom she was married in 1685. She was second daughter of Henry, first

Duke of Beaufort.]

[Footnote 138: The first patroness of Chaucer was Blanche, first wife of

John, Duke of Gaunt, whose death he has celebrated in the "Boke of the

Duchesse." She was the second daughter of Henry, Duke of Lancaster,

grandson of Edmund, surnamed Crouchback, brother of Edward I. But I do

not know how the Duchess of Ormond could be said to be "born of her

blood," since she was descended of John of Gaunt by his third, not his

first wife. Dryden, however, might not know, or might disregard, these

minutiæ of genealogy.]

[Footnote 139: John of Gaunt had by his mistress, Catharine Rouet, whom

he afterwards married, three sons and a daughter, who were legitimated

by act of Parliament. John de Beaufort, the eldest of these, was created

Earl of Somerset, and from him the ducal family of Beaufort are lineally

descended. The patent of the first Duke, the father of this Duchess of

Ormond, bears to be, in consideration of his services, and of his most

noble descent from King Edward III., by John de Beaufort, eldest son of

John of Gaunt, by his third marriage.]

[Footnote 140: Our author remembered his master Virgil:

_Et Pater ipse, manu magnâ, Portunus euntem

Impulit_---- ÆNEIDOS, _Lib. V._

]

[Footnote 141: Our author is guilty of the same extravagant idea in the

"Astræa Redux:"

It is no longer motion cheats your view;

As you meet it, the land approacheth you.

For which he is deservedly censured by Dr Johnson.]

[Footnote 142: The Duchess of Ormond went to Ireland in autumn 1697,

according to Mr Malone, and was followed by the Duke.]

[Footnote 143: Alluding to the wars of the Revolution in Ireland.]

[Footnote 144: She seems to have been just recovered from a fever.]

[Footnote 145: Titus, who is said to have wept at the destruction of the

Temple, during the storm of Jerusalem.]

[Footnote 146: Dr Christopher Love Morley, a physician of eminence.]

[Footnote 147: It was not the Duchess's fortune ever to pay this debt to

the house of Ormond.]

PALAMON AND ARCITE

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.

BOOK I.

In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame,

A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name;

A chief, who more in feats of arms excelled,

The rising nor the setting sun beheld.

Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,

And added foreign countries to his crown.

In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,

Whom first by force he conquered, then by love;

He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,

With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.

With honour to his home let Theseus ride, }

With love to friend, and fortune for his guide, }

And his victorious army at his side. }

I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,

Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way;

But, were it not too long, I would recite }

The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight }

Betwixt the hardy queen, and hero knight; }

The town besieged, and how much blood it cost

The female army, and the Athenian host;

The spousals of Hippolita the queen;

What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen;

The storm at their return, the ladies' fear;

But these, and other things, I must forbear.

The field is spacious I design to sow,

With oxen far unfit to draw the plow:

The remnant of my tale is of a length

To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;

And trivial accidents shall be forborne,

That others may have time to take their turn;

As was at first enjoined us by mine host, }

That he whose tale is best, and pleases most, }

Should win his supper at our common cost. }

And therefore where I left, I will pursue }

This ancient story, whether false or true, }

In hope it may be mended with a new. }

The prince I mentioned, full of high renown,

In this array drew near the Athenian town;

When in his pomp and utmost of his pride,

Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside,

And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay,

By two and two, across the common way:

At his approach they raised a rueful cry,

And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high;

Creeping and crying, till they seized at last,

His courser's bridle, and his feet embraced.

Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are,

And why this funeral pageant you prepare?

Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds,

To meet my triumph, in ill-omened weeds?

Or envy you my praise, and would destroy

With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy?

Or are you injured, and demand relief?

Name your request, and I will ease your grief.--

The most in years, of all the mourning train,

Began; but swooned first away for pain:

Then, scarce recovered, spoke;--Nor envy we

Thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory:

'Tis thine, O king, the afflicted to redress,

And fame has filled the world with thy success:

We wretched women sue for that alone,

Which of thy goodness is refused to none;

Let fall some drops of pity on our grief,

If what we beg be just, and we deserve relief;

For none of us, who now thy grace implore,

But held the rank of sovereign queen before;

Till, thanks to giddy chance, which never bears,

That mortal bliss should last for length of years,

She cast us headlong from our high estate,

And here in hope of thy return we wait;

And long have waited in the temple nigh,

Built to the gracious goddess Clemency.

But reverence thou the power, whose name it bears;

Relieve the oppressed, and wipe the widow's tears.

I, wretched I, have other fortune seen,

The wife of Capaneus, and once a queen:

At Thebes he fell; curst be the fatal day!

And all the rest thou seest in this array,

To make their moan, their lords in battle lost

Before that town besieged by our confederate host;

But Creon, old and impious, who commands

The Theban city, and usurps the lands,

Denies the rites of funeral fires to those

Whose breathless bodies yet he calls his foes.

Unburned, unburied, on a heap they lie;

Such is their fate, and such his tyranny;

No friend has leave to bear away the dead,

But with their lifeless limbs his hounds are fed.--

At this she shrieked aloud; the mournful train

Echoed her grief, and, grovelling on the plain,

With groans, and hands upheld, to move his mind,

Besought his pity to their helpless kind.

The prince was touched, his tears began to flow,

And, as his tender heart would break in two,

He sighed; and could not but their fate deplore,

So wretched now, so fortunate before.

Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew,

And raising one by one the suppliant crew,

To comfort each, full solemnly he swore,

"That, by the faith which knights to knighthood bore,

And whate'er else to chivalry belongs,

He would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs;

That Greece should see performed what he declared;

And cruel Creon find his just reward."--

He said no more, but, shunning all delay,

Rode on, nor entered Athens on his way;

But left his sister and his queen behind,

And waved his royal banner in the wind,

Where, in an argent field, the god of war

Was drawn triumphant on his iron car;

Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire,

And all the godhead seemed to glow with fire;

Even the ground glittered where the standard flew,

And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue.

High on his pointed lance, his pennon bore[148]

His Cretan fight, the conquered Minotaur:

The soldiers shout around with generous rage,

And in that victory their own presage.

He praised their ardour; inly pleased to see

His host the flower of Grecian chivalry.

All day he marched, and all the ensuing night,

And saw the city with returning light.

The process of the war I need not tell,

How Theseus conquered, and how Creon fell;

Or after, how by storm the walls were won,

Or how the victor sacked and burned the town;

How to the ladies he restored again

The bodies of their lords in battle slain;

And with what ancient rites they were interred,--

All these to fitter times shall be deferred:

I spare the widows' tears, their woful cries,

And howling at their husbands' obsequies;

How Theseus at these funerals did assist,

And with what gifts the mourning dames dismissed.

Thus when the victor-chief had Creon slain,

And conquered Thebes, he pitched upon the plain

His mighty camp, and, when the day returned,

The country wasted, and the hamlets burned,

And left the pillagers, to rapine bred,

Without controul, to strip and spoil the dead.

There, in a heap of slain, among the rest,

Two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppressed

Of slaughtered foes, whom first to death they sent,

The trophies of their strength, a bloody monument.

Both fair, and both of royal blood they seemed,

Whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds deemed;

That day in equal arms they fought for fame;

Their swords, their shields, their surcoats, were the same.

Close by each other laid, they pressed the ground,

Their manly bosoms pierced with many a grisly wound;

Nor well alive, nor wholly dead they were,

But some faint signs of feeble life appear;

The wandring breath was on the wing to part,

Weak was the pulse, and hardly heaved the heart.

These two were sister's sons; and Arcite one,

Much famed in fields, with valiant Palamon.

From these their costly arms the spoilers rent,

And softly both conveyed to Theseus' tent;

Whom, known of Creon's line, and cured with care,

He to his city sent as prisoners of the war,

Hopeless of ransom, and condemned to lie

In durance, doomed a lingering death to die.

This done, he marched away with warlike sound, }

And to his Athens turned with laurels crowned, }

Where happy long he lived, much loved, and more renowned. }

But in a tower, and never to be loosed,

The woful captive kinsmen are inclosed.

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,

Till once,--'twas on the morn of cheerful May,--

The young Emilia, fairer to be seen

Than the fair lily on the flowery green,

More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,

For with the rosy colour strove her hue,

Waked, as her custom was, before the day,

To do the observance due to sprightly May;

For sprightly May commands our youth to keep

The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;

Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves;

Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.

In this remembrance, Emily, ere day,

Arose, and dressed herself in rich array;

Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,

Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair;

A ribband did the braided tresses bind,

The rest was loose, and wantoned in the wind:

Aurora had but newly chased the night,

And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,

When to the garden walk she took her way, }

To sport and trip along in cool of day, }

And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. }

At every turn she made a little stand,

And thrust among the thorns her lily hand

To draw the rose, and every rose she drew,

She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew;

Then party-coloured flowers of white and red

She wove, to make a garland for her head

This done, she sung and carolled out so clear,

That men and angels might rejoice to hear;

Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing,

And learned from her to welcome in the spring.

The tower, of which before was mention made,

Within whose keep the captive knights were laid,

Built of a large extent, and strong withal,

Was one partition of the palace wall;

The garden was enclosed within the square,

Where young Emilia took the morning-air.

It happened Palamon, the prisoner knight,

Restless for woe, arose before the light,

And with his jailor's leave desired to breathe

An air more wholesome than the damps beneath.

This granted, to the tower he took his way,

Cheered with the promise of a glorious day;

Then cast a languishing regard around, }

And saw, with hateful eyes, the temples crowned }

With golden spires, and all the hostile ground. }

He sighed, and turned his eyes, because he knew

'Twas but a larger jail he had in view;

Then looked below, and from the castle's height

Beheld a nearer and more pleasing sight;

The garden, which before he had not seen, }

In spring's new livery clad with white and green, }

Fresh flowers in wide parterres, and shady walks between. }

This viewed, but not enjoyed, with arms across

He stood, reflecting on his country's loss;

Himself an object of the public scorn,

And often wished he never had been born.

At last, for so his destiny required,

With walking giddy, and with thinking tired,

He through a little window cast his sight,

Though thick of bars, that gave a scanty light;

But even that glimmering served him to descry

The inevitable charms of Emily.

Scarce had he seen, but, seized with sudden smart,

Stung to the quick, he felt it to his heart;

Struck blind with overpowering light, he stood,

Then started back amazed, and cried aloud.

Young Arcite heard, and up he ran with haste,

To help his friend, and in his arms embraced;

And asked him why he looked so deadly wan,

And whence and how his change of cheer began?

Or who had done the offence? "But if," said he,

"Your grief alone is hard captivity;

For love of heaven with patience undergo

A cureless ill, since fate will have it so:

So stood our horoscope in chains to lie,

And Saturn in the dungeon of the sky,

Or other baleful aspect, ruled our birth,

When all the friendly stars were under earth:

Whate'er betides, by destiny 'tis done;

And better bear like men, than vainly seek to shun.

Nor of my bonds, said Palamon again,

Nor of unhappy planets, I complain;

But when my mortal anguish caused my cry,

That moment I was hurt through either eye;

Pierced with a random shaft, I faint away,

And perish with insensible decay:

A glance of some new goddess gave the wound,

Whom, like Acteon, unaware I found.

Look how she walks along yon shady space! }

Not Juno moves with more majestic grace, }

And all the Cyprian queen is in her face. }

If thou art Venus, (for thy charms confess,

That face was formed in heaven, nor art thou less;

Disguised in habit, undisguised in shape,)

O help us captives from our chains to 'scape!

But if our doom be past in bonds to lie

For life, and in a loathsome dungeon die,

Then be thy wrath appeased with our disgrace,

And shew compassion to the Theban race,

Oppressed by tyrant power!"--While yet he spoke,

Arcite on Emily had fixed his look;

The fatal dart a ready passage found,

And deep within his heart infixed the wound:

So that if Palamon were wounded sore,

Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more:

Then from his inmost soul he sighed, and said,

The beauty I behold has struck me dead:

Unknowingly she strikes, and kills by chance;

Poison is in her eyes, and death in every glance.

O, I must; nor ask alone, but move

Her mind to mercy, or must die for love.--

Thus Arcite: And thus Palamon replies,

(Eager his tone, and ardent were his eyes,)

Speak'st thou in earnest, or in jesting vein? }

Jesting, said Arcite, suits but ill with pain. }

It suits far worse, (said Palamon again, }

And bent his brows,) with men who honour weigh,

Their faith to break, their friendship to betray;

But worst with thee, of noble lineage born,

My kinsman, and in arms my brother sworn.

Have we not plighted each our holy oath,

That one should be the common good of both;

One soul should both inspire, and neither prove

His fellow's hindrance in pursuit of love?

To this before the gods we gave our hands,

And nothing but our death can break the bands.

This binds thee, then, to further my design,

As I am bound by vow to further thine:

Nor canst, nor dar'st thou, traitor, on the plain,

Appeach my honour, or thy own maintain;

Since thou art of my council, and the friend

Whose faith I trust, and on whose care depend.

And wouldst thou court my lady's love, which I

Much rather than release would choose to die?

But thou, false Arcite, never shalt obtain

Thy bad pretence; I told thee first my pain:

For first my love began ere thine was born;

Thou, as my council, and my brother sworn,

Art bound to assist my eldership of right,

Or justly to be deemed a perjured knight.--

Thus Palamon: But Arcite, with disdain,

In haughty language, thus replied again,--

Forsworn thyself: the traitor's odious name

I first return, and then disprove thy claim.

If love be passion, and that passion nurst

With strong desires, I loved the lady first.

Canst thou pretend desire, whom zeal inflamed

To worship, and a power celestial named?

Thine was devotion to the blest above,

I saw the woman, and desired her love;

First owned my passion, and to thee commend

The important secret, as my chosen friend.

Suppose (which yet I grant not) thy desire

A moment elder than my rival fire;

Can chance of seeing first thy title prove?

And know'st thou not, no law is made for love?

Law is to things which to free choice relate;

Love is not in our choice, but in our fate:

Laws are but positive; love's power, we see,

Is nature's sanction, and her first decree.

Each day we break the bond of human laws

For love, and vindicate the common cause.

Laws for defence of civil rights are placed;

Love throws the fences down, and makes a general waste:

Maids, widows, wives, without distinction fall;

The sweeping deluge, love, comes on, and covers all.

If then the laws of friendship I transgress, }

I keep the greater, while I break the less; }

And both are mad alike, since neither can possess. }

Both hopeless to be ransomed, never more

To see the sun, but as he passes o'er.--

Like Æsop's hounds contending for the bone,

Each pleaded right, and would be lord alone:

The fruitless fight continued all the day;

A cur came by, and snatched the prize away.

As courtiers therefore jostle for a grant,

And when they break their friendship, plead their want;

So thou, if fortune will thy suit advance,

Love on, nor envy me my equal chance:

For I must love, and am resolved to try

My fate, or, failing in the adventure, die.

Great was their strife, which hourly was renewed,

Till each with mortal hate his rival viewed:

Now friends no more, nor walking hand in hand,

But when they met, they made a surly stand,

And glared like angry lions as they passed,

And wished that every look might be their last.

It chanced at length, Perithous came, to attend

This worthy Theseus, his familiar friend:

Their love in early infancy began,

And rose as childhood ripened into man,

Companions of the war; and loved so well, }

That when one died, as ancient stories tell, }

His fellow to redeem him went to hell. }

But to pursue my tale; to welcome home

His warlike brother, is Perithous come:

Arcite of Thebes was known in arms long since,

And honoured by this young Thessalian prince.

Theseus, to gratify his friend and guest,

Who made our Arcite's freedom his request,

Restored to liberty the captive knight,

But on these hard conditions I recite:--

That if hereafter Arcite should be found

Within the compass of Athenian ground,

By day or night, or on whate'er pretence,

His head should pay the forfeit of the offence.

To this Perithous for his friend agreed,

And on his promise was the prisoner freed.

Unpleased and pensive hence he takes his way,

At his own peril; for his life must pay.

Who now but Arcite mourns his bitter fate,

Finds his dear purchase, and repents too late?

What have I gained, he said, in prison pent,

If I but change my bonds for banishment?

And banished from her sight, I suffer more

In freedom, than I felt in bonds before;

Forced from her presence, and condemned to live,

Unwelcome freedom, and unthanked reprieve:

Heaven is not, but where Emily abides,

And where she's absent, all is hell besides.

Next to my day of birth, was that accurst,

Which bound my friendship to Perithous first:

Had I not known that prince, I still had been

In bondage, and had still Emilia seen:

For though I never can her grace deserve,

'Tis recompence enough to see and serve.

O Palamon, my kinsman and my friend,

How much more happy fates thy love attend!

Thine is the adventure; thine the victory;

Well has thy fortune turned the dice for thee:

Thou on that angel's face may'st feed thine eyes,

In prison, no; but blissful paradise!

Thou daily seest that sun of beauty shine,

And lov'st at least in love's extremest line.

I mourn in absence, love's eternal night; }

And who can tell but since thou hast her sight, }

And art a comely, young, and valiant knight, }

Fortune (a various power) may cease to frown,

And, by some ways unknown, thy wishes crown?

But I, the most forlorn of human kind,

Nor help can hope, nor remedy can find;

But doomed to drag my loathsome life in care,

For my reward, must end it in despair.

Fire, water, air, and earth, and force of fates,

That governs all, and heaven that all creates,

Nor art, nor nature's hand can ease my grief;

Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief:

Then farewell youth, and all the joys that dwell

With youth and life, and life itself, farewell!

But why, alas! do mortal men in vain

Of fortune, fate, or Providence, complain?

God gives us what he knows our wants require,

And better things than those which we desire:

Some pray for riches; riches they obtain;

But, watched by robbers, for their wealth are slain:

Some pray from prison to be freed; and come,

When guilty of their vows, to fall at home;

Murdered by those they trusted with their life,

A favoured servant, or a bosom wife.

Such dear-bought blessings happen every day,

Because we know not for what things to pray.

Like drunken sots about the streets we roam;

Well knows the sot he has a certain home,

Yet knows not how to find the uncertain place,

And blunders on, and staggers every pace.

Thus all seek happiness; but few can find,

For far the greater part of men are blind.

This is my case, who thought our utmost good

Was in one word of freedom understood:

The fatal blessing came; from prison free,

I starve abroad, and lose the sight of Emily.--

Thus Arcite; but if Arcite thus deplore

His sufferings, Palamon yet suffers more.

For when he knew his rival freed and gone,

He swells with wrath, he makes outrageous moan,

He frets, he fumes, he stares, he stamps the ground;

The hollow tower with clamours rings around:

With briny tears he bathed his fettered feet,

And dropped all o'er with agony of sweat.

Alas! he cried, I, wretch! in prison pine,

Too happy rival, while the fruit is thine:

Thou liv'st at large, thou draw'st thy native air,

Pleased with thy freedom, proud of my despair:

Thou may'st, since thou hast youth and courage joined,

A sweet behaviour and a solid mind,

Assemble ours, and all the Theban race,

To vindicate on Athens thy disgrace;

And after, by some treaty made, possess

Fair Emily, the pledge of lasting peace.

So thine shall be the beauteous prize, while I

Must languish in despair, in prison die.

Thus all the advantage of the strife is thine,

Thy portion double joys, and double sorrows mine.--

The rage of jealousy then fired his soul,

And his face kindled like a burning coal:

Now cold despair, succeeding in her stead,

To livid paleness turns the glowing red.

His blood, scarce liquid, creeps within his veins,

Like water which the freezing wind constrains.

Then thus he said:--Eternal deities,

Who rule the world with absolute decrees,

And write whatever time shall bring to pass,

With pens of adamant, on plates of brass;

What, is the race of human kind your care

Beyond what all his fellow-creatures are?

He with the rest is liable to pain,

And like the sheep, his brother-beast, is slain.

Cold, hunger, prisons, ills without a cure,

All these he must, and, guiltless, oft endure;

Or does your justice, power, or presence fail,

When the good suffer, and the bad prevail?

What worse to wretched virtue could befal,

If fate or giddy fortune governed all?

Nay, worse than other beasts is our estate;

Them, to pursue their pleasures, you create;

We, bound by harder laws, must curb our will,

And your commands, not our desires, fulfil:

Then when the creature is unjustly slain,

Yet, after death at least, he feels no pain;

But man, in life surcharged with woe before,

Not freed when dead, is doomed to suffer more.

A serpent shoots his sting at unaware;

An ambushed thief forelays a traveller;

The man lies murdered, while the thief and snake,

One gains the thickets, and one thrids the brake.

This let divines decide; but well I know,

Just, or unjust, I have my share of woe:

Through Saturn seated in a luckless place,

And Juno's wrath, that persecutes my race;

Or Mars and Venus, in a quartil, move

My pangs of jealousy for Arcite's love.--

Let Palamon oppressed in bondage mourn,

While to his exiled rival we return.

By this, the sun, declining from his height,

The day had shortened to prolong the night:

The lengthened night gave length of misery,

Both to the captive lover and the free.

For Palamon in endless prison mourns,

And Arcite forfeits life if he returns.

The banished never hopes his love to see,

Nor hopes the captive lord his liberty:

'Tis hard to say who suffers greater pains;

One sees his love, but cannot break his chains;

One free, and all his motions uncontrouled,

Beholds whate'er he would, but what he would behold.[149]

Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell

What fortune to the banished knight befel.

When Arcite was to Thebes returned again,

The loss of her he loved renewed his pain;

What could be worse, than never more to see

His life, his soul, his charming Emily?

He raved with all the madness of despair,

He roared, he beat his breast, he tore his hair.

Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears,

For, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears:

His eye-balls in their hollow sockets sink,

Bereft of sleep; he loaths his meat and drink.

He withers at his heart, and looks as wan

As the pale spectre of a murdered man:

That pale turns yellow, and his face receives

The faded hue of sapless boxen leaves:

In solitary groves he makes his moan,

Walks early out, and ever is alone:

Nor, mixed in mirth, in youthful pleasures shares,

But sighs when songs and instruments he hears.

His spirits are so low, his voice is drowned; }

He hears as from afar, or in a swoon, }

Like the deaf murmurs of a distant sound: }

Uncombed his locks, and squalid his attire,

Unlike the trim of love and gay desire;

But full of museful mopings, which presage

The loss of reason, and conclude in rage.

This when he had endured a year and more,

Now wholly changed from what he was before,

It happened once, that, slumbering as he lay,

He dreamed, (his dream began at break of day,)

That Hermes o'er his head in air appeared,

And with soft words his drooping spirits cheered:

His hat, adorned with wings, disclosed the God,

And in his hand he bore the sleep-compelling rod;

Such as he seemed, when, at his sire's command,

On Argus' head he laid the snaky wand.

Arise, he said, to conquering Athens go,

There fate appoints an end of all thy woe.--[150]

The fright awakened Arcite with a start,

Against his bosom bounced his heaving heart;

But soon he said, with scarce-recovered breath,

And thither will I go, to meet my death,

Sure to be slain; but death is my desire,

Since in Emilia's sight I shall expire.--

By chance he spied a mirror while he spoke,

And gazing there beheld his altered look;

Wondering, he saw his features and his hue

So much were changed, that scarce himself he knew.

A sudden thought then starting in his mind,--

Since I in Arcite cannot Arcite find,

The world may search in vain with all their eyes,

But never penetrate through this disguise.

Thanks to the change which grief and sickness give,

In low estate I may securely live,

And see, unknown, my mistress day by day.--

He said, and clothed himself in coarse array;

A labouring hind in shew: then forth he went,

And to the Athenian towers his journey bent:

One squire attended in the same disguise,

Made conscious of his master's enterprize.

Arrived at Athens, soon he came to court,

Unknown, unquestioned in that thick resort;

Proffering for hire his service at the gate,

To drudge, draw water, and to run or wait.

So fair befel him, that for little gain

He served at first Emilia's chamberlain;

And, watchful all advantages to spy,

Was still at hand, and in his master's eye;

And, as his bones were big, and sinews strong,

Refused no toil that could to slaves belong;

But from deep wells with engines water drew,

And used his noble hands the wood to hew.

He passed a year at least attending thus

On Emily, and called Philostratus.

But never was there man of his degree

So much esteemed, so well beloved as he.

So gentle of condition was he known,

That through the court his courtesy was blown:

All think him worthy of a greater place,

And recommend him to the royal grace;

That, exercised within a higher sphere,

His virtues more conspicuous might appear.

Thus by the general voice was Arcite praised,

And by great Theseus to high favour raised;

Among his menial servants first enrolled,

And largely entertained with sums of gold;

Besides what secretly from Thebes was sent,

Of his own income, and his annual rent.

This well employed, he purchased friends and fame,

But cautiously concealed from whence it came.

Thus for three years he lived with large increase,

In arms of honour, and esteem in peace;

To Theseus' person he was ever near,

And Theseus for his virtues held him dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 148: The poet here introduces a distinction, well known in

heraldry. The banner was a square flag, which only barons of a great

lineage and power had a right to display. The pennon was a forked

streamer borne by a knight: Theseus carried both to the field, each

bearing a separate device. Chaucer says,

"And by his banner borne is his pennon."

]

[Footnote 149: This play of words, which is truly Ovidian, does not

occur in Chaucer, nor is it in conformity with our author's general

ideas of translating him. (See Introduction to the "Fables.") The Old

Bard says simply:

The other where him list may ride and go,

But see his lady shall he never mo.

]

[Footnote 150: This violent machine seems unnecessary. The change,

previously described as having taken place in Arcite's appearance, might

have vindicated his return to the court of Theseus. The apparition of

Hermes is only intended as an allegory, to signify Arcite's employing

stratagem.]

PALAMON AND ARCITE,

OR,

THE KNIGHT'S TALE.