Thy trumpet founds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet fpreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealth, infatiate still of more;
To her own wool the filks of Afia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an immortal name,
To lands remote fends forth his learned mufe,
The nobleft feeds of foreign wit to choose :
Feafting our sense so many various ways,
Sáy, is't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might fee,
Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.
To Mr. DRYDEN, by JOSEPH ADDISON, Efq.
H OW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise !
Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rifing thought; Penfive and fad, his drooping mufe betrays
The Roman genius in its laft decays.
Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast.
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own :
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our isle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer ftyle:
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
And tells his ftory in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe, and fair tranflations show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry Gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods.
O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong,
Nor age, nor fickness interrupt thy song :
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams,
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a fecond life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.
Mag. Coll. Oxon.
June 2, 1693.
From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the ENGLISH POETS.
BUT fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful mufe affords The fweeteft numbers and the fitteft words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, the moves our fmiles and tears. If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,
Her hero pleafes, and her fatire bites.
From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all :
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear!
Congreve! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve fhall ftill preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's mufe fhall in his friend survive.
On ALEXANDER'S FEAST: Or,
From Mr POPE'S ESSAY on CRITICISM, 1. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow.
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdued by found.
The of Mufick all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
Ehold, where Dryden's lefs presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :
Two courfers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more
Oh! lyre divine, what daring fpirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with fupreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air :
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the fun :
Yet fhall he mount, and keep his diftant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
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