MR. DRYDEN'S

ORIGINAL POEMS.

Upon the DEATH of Lord HASTINGS.

M

WUST noble Haftings immaturely die,
The honour of his ancient family,
Beauty and learning thus together meet,
To bring a winding for a wedding sheet?
Muft virtue prove death's harbinger? must she,
With him expiring, feel mortality?

Is death, fin'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? ftudy felf-murther deem?
Our noble youth now have pretence to be
Dunces fecurely, ignorant healthfully.

Rare linguist whofe worth speaks itself, whose praise,
Though not his own, all tongues befides do raife:
Than whom great Alexander may seem less;
Who conquer'd men, but not their languages.
In his mouth nations fpake; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.

His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apostle; and with reverence may
I speak it, inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art though further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his fublime foul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole :
Whofe regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' fphere, the heavens did fhew.
Graces and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling ftars appear
Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his foul; and thence
Shone through his body, with fweet influence;
Letting their glories fo on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celeftial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, and tryal make,
If thou this hero's altitude canft take:
But that tranfcends thy fkill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus aftronomical.

Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which shone
More bright i'th' morn', than others beam at noon,
He'd take his aftrolabe, and feek out here
What new ftar 'twas did gild our hemifphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as these,
Where was room left for fuch a foul disease?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which fhrouds
Our day-fpring in fo fad benighting clouds,

Heaven would no longer truft its pledge; but thus
Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthinefs of Pandora's box?

So many fpots, like næves on Venus' foil,

One jewel fet off with fo many a foil;

Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did sprout

Like rofe-buds, fuck i'th' lily-skin about.

Each little pimple had a tear in it,

To wail the fault its rifing did commit:
Which, rebel-like, with it's own lord at ftrife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were thefe gems fent to adorn his fkin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might seem a conftellation.
O! hat he dy'd of old, how great a strife

Had been, who from his death fhould draw their life?
Who fhould, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæfar, were?

Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An univerfal metempfychofis.

Muft all these aged fires in one funeral

Expire? all die in one fo young, fo fmall?
Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame
Had fwol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name.
But hafty winter, with one blaft, hath brought
The hopes of autumn, fummer, fpring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i'th' fprig, i'th' blade the corn;
Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new-born.

Muft

Muft then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their gout, Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out? Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!

Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal !

Muft drunkards, lechers, spent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but fuch as should die? fhall we meet
With none but ghoftly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And fhowers of tears tempeftuous fighs beft 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-ravifh'd spouse is gone,
Whofe fkilful fire in vain ftrove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than platonic love, O wed
His foul, though not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Haftings o'th' better part: fo fhall he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An issue, which, t'eternity fhall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best

Monument is his fpoufe's marble breast.

HEROIC STANZAS on the Death of OLIVER CROMWELL, written after his Funeral.

I.

AND now 'tis time; for their officious hafte,

Who would before have borne him to the sky,

Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too foon the facred eagle fly.

II.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

III.

Though in his praife no arts can liberal be,
Since they, whofe Mufes have the highest flown,

Add not to his immortal memory,

But do an act of friendship to their own :

IV.

Yet 'tis our duty, and our intereft too,

Such monuments as we can build to raise; Left all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a title in him by their praise.

V.

How fhall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame fo truly circular;

For in a round what order can be fhew'd,

Where all the parts fo equal perfect are?