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ON ALEXANDER'S FEAST:

Feasting our sense so many various ways, Say, is 't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise? That, by comparing others, all might see, Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

BY JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.

How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise!
Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought;
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.

Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
And second youth is kindled in thy breast.
Thou mak'st 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 teachest Persius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style:
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.

[woods.

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse, and fair translations show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the
O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong,
Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song:
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams,
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,

Have liv'd a second 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.

OR,

THE POWER OF MUSIC.
AN ODE.

FROM MR. POPE'S ESSAY ON CRITICISM, L. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
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 sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow.
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound.
The power of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

CHARACTER OF DRYDEN,

FROM AN ODE OF GRAY.

BEHOLD, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear:

[pace.

Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding
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 spirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme 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 Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.

FROM ADDISON'S

ACCOUNT OF THE ENGLISH FOETS. BUT see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whose tuneful Muse affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words. Whether in comic sounds, or tragic airs, She forms her voice, she moves our smiles and tears. If satire or heroic strains she writes, Her hero pleases, and her satire bites. From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall, She wears all dresses, and she charms in all: How might we fear our English poetry, That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee: Did not the Muses' other hope appear, Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear! Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store Has given already much, and promis'd more. Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive, And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive.

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR

OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.

TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good:
Where, though the Nine their beauteous strokes re-
And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, [peat,
It looks as if they strook them at a heat.
So all serenely great, so just refin'd,
Like angels love to human seed inclin'd,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
"Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms roll,
So brightly fierce, each syllable 's a soul.
"Tis miniature of man, but he 's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom ev'n the fanatics altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arose,
Fil'd off the rust, and the right party chose.
Nor, sir, be shock'd at what the gloomy say;
Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay.

'Tis gracious all, and great: push on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.
David, that rebel Israel's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd.

The beauties of your Absalom excel:
But more the charms of charming Annabel:
Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,
Cheerful as summer's noon, and chaste as winter's
Of Annabel, the Muse's dearest theme; [night.
Of Annabel, the augel of my dream,
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,
And to your masterpiece these shadows send.

NAT. LEE.

TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR

OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.

HAIL, heaven-born Muse! hail, every sacred page!
The glory of our isle and of our age.
Th' inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh,
The North at length teems with a work, to vie
With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty.
While Pindus' lofty heights out poet sought,
(His ravish'd mind with vast ideas fraught)
Our language fail'd beneath his rising thought.
This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines
He drains of all their gold, t' adorn his lines:
Through each of which the Mantuan genius shines.
The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breast dissolv'd into a tide:
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as sense invents,
And, with his poem, a new speech presents.
Hail then, thou matchless bard, thou great unknown,
That give your country fame, yet shun your own!
In vain; for every where your praise you find,
And, not to meet it, you must shun mankind.
Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws,
And ev'n the factious give your verse applause,
Whose lightning strikes to ground their idol cause:
The cause for whose dear sake they drank a flood
Of civil gore, nor spar'd the royal blood;
The cause, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote
In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one stab of your keen satire dies;
Before your sacred lines their shatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! if unworthy we appear to know
The sire, to whom this lovely birth we owe:
Deny'd our ready homage to express,
And can at best but thankful be by guess;
This hope remains: May David's godlike mind
(For him 'twas wrote) the unknown author find;
And, having found, shower equal favours down
On wit so vast, as could oblige a crown.

UPON

N. TATE.

THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDAL ONCE more our awful poet arms, t' engage The threatening hydra-faction of the age; Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield, And every Muse attends him to the field. By Art and Nature for this task design'd, Yet modestly the fight he long declin'd; Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour, Nor loos'd his satire till the needful hour.

His sovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.
Blest Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd,
And blest the cause that such a champion found!
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black Sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with subjects forc'd t' engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less-infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse:
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring,
To snarl and bark against the poets' king;
A crew, that scandalize the nation more,
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as ev'n from Faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise :
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.

N. TATE

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR

OF THE MEDAL, AND ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL

THUS pious Ignorance, with dubious praise,
Altars of old to gods unknown did raise:
They knew not the lov'd Deity; they knew
Divine effects a cause divine did shew;
Nor can we doubt, when such these numbers are,
Such is their cause, though the worst Muse shall dare
Their sacred worth in humble verse declare.

As gentle Thames, charm'd with thy tuneful song, Glides in a peaceful majesty along;

No rebel stone, no lofty bank, does brave
The easy passage of his silent wave:
So, sacred poet, so thy numbers flow,
Sinewy, yet mild as happy lovers woo;
Strong, yet harmonious too as planets move,
Yet soft as down upon the wings of Love.
How sweet does Virtue in your dress appear;
How much more charming, when much less severe!
Whilst you our senses harmlessly beguile,
With all th' allurements of your happy style;
Y' insinuate loyalty with kind deceit,
And into sense th' unthinking many cheat.
So the sweet Thracian with his charming lyre
Into rude Nature virtue did inspire;

So he the savage herd to reason drew,
Yet scarce so sweet, so charmingly as you.
O that you would, with some such powerful charm,
Enervate Albion to just valour warm!
Whether much-suffering Charles shall theme afford,
Or the great deeds of godlike James's sword.
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again
Another fleet might pass the subject main,
Another Edward lead the Britons on,
Or such an Ossory as you did moan;
While in such numbers you, in such a strain,
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let false Achitophel the rout engage,
Talk easy Absalom to rebel rage;
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,

Or modest, Corah more new plots reveal;

Whilst constant to himself, secure of Fate,
Good David still maintains the royal state.
Though each in vain such various ills employs,
Firmly he stands, and ev'n those ills enjoys;
Firm as fair Albion, midst the raging main,
Surveys encircling danger with disdain.

In vain the waves assault the unmov'd shore,
In vain the winds with mingled fury roar,
Fair Albion's beauteous cliffs shine whiter than before.
Nor shalt thou move, though Hell thy fall conspire,
Though the worse rage of Zeal's fanatic fire;
Thou best, thou greatest of the British race,
Thou only fit to fill great Charles's place.

Ah, wretched Britons! ah, too stubborn isle!
Ah, stiff-neck'd Israel on blest Canaan's soil!
Are those dear proofs of Heaven's indulgence vain,
Restoring David and nis gentle reign?
Is it in vain thou all the goods dost know,
Auspicious stars on mortals shed below,

[flow?

While all thy streams with milk, thy lands with honey
No more, fond isle! no more thyself engage
In civil fury, and intestine rage:

No rebel zeal thy duteous land molest,

But a smooth calm soothe every peaceful breast.
While in such charming notes divinely sings
The best of poets, of the best of kings.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

J. ADAMS.

ON HIS RELIGIO LAICI.

THOSE gods the pious ancients did adore,
They learnt in verse devoutly to implore,
Thinking it rude to use the common way
Of talk, when they did to such beings pray.
Nay, they that taught religion first, thought fit
In verse its sacred precepts to transmit:
So Solon too did his first statutes draw,
And every little stanza was a law.
By these few precedents we plainly see
The primitive design of poetry;
Which, by restoring to its native use,
You generously have rescued from abuse.
Whilst your lov'd Muse does in sweet numbers sing,
She vindicates her God, and godlike king.
Atheist, and rebel too, she does oppose,
(God and the king have always the same foes).
Legions of verse you raise in their defence,
And write the factious to obedience;
You the bold Arian to arms defy,
A conquering champion for the Deity
Against the Whigs' first parents, who did dare
To disinherit God Almighty's heir.
And what the hot-brain'd Arian first began,
Is carried on by the Socinian,

Who still associates to keep God a man.
But 'tis the prince of poets' task alone

T'assert the rights of God's and Charles's throne.
Whilst vulgar poets purchase vulgar fame
By chaunting Chloris' or fair Phyllis' name;
Whose reputation shall last as long,

As fops and ladies sing the amorous song:
A nobler subject wisely they refuse,

The mighty weight would crush their feeble Muse.
So, Story tells, a painter once would try
With his bold hand to limn a deity:
And he, by frequent practising that part,
Could draw a minor god with wondrous art:

But when great Jove did to the workman sit,
The thunderer such horrour did beget,
That put the frighted artist to a stand,
And made his pencil drop from 's baffled hand.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE THIRD BOOK OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICs.

WHILE

A PINDARIC ODE.

BY MR. JOHN DENNIS.

IIILE mounting with expanded wings
The Mantuan swan unbounded Heaven explores,
While with seraphic sounds he towering sings,
Till to divinity he soars:

Mankind stands wondering at his flight,
Charm'd with his music, and his height:
Which both transcend our praise.
Nay gods incline their ravish'd ears,
And tune their own harmonious spheres,
To his melodious lays.

Thou, Dryden, canst his notes recite
In modern numbers, which express
Their music, and their utmost might:
Thou, wondrous poet, with success
Canst emulate his flight.

Sometimes of humble rural things,

Thy Muse, which keeps great Maro still in sight,
In middle air with varied numbers sings;
And sometimes her sonorous flight
To Heaven sublimely wings:
But first takes time with majesty to rise,
Then, without pride, divinely great,

She mounts her native skies;
And, goddess like, retains her state
When down again she flies.

Commands, which Judgment gives, she still obeys,
Both to depress her flight, and raise.

Thus Mercury from Heaven descends, And to this under world his journey bends,

When Jove his dread commands has given But, still descending, dignity maintains, As much a god upon our humble plains, As when he, towering, re-ascends to Heaven But when thy goddess takes her flight, With so much majesty, to such a height, As can alone suffice to prove, That she descends from mighty Jove: Gods! how thy thoughts then rise, and soar, and Immortal spirit animates each line; [shine!

Each with bright flame that fires our souls is crown'd, Each has magnificence of sound,

And harmony divine.

Thus the first orbs, in their high rounds,
With shining pomp advance;
And to their own celestial sounds
Majestically dance.

On, with eternal symphony, they roll,
Each turn'd in its harmonious course,
And each inform'd by the prodigious force
Of an empyreal soul.

*** See a poem by DUKE, in vol. ix. of this collection.

POEMS

OF

JOHN DRYDEN.

ORIGINAL POEMS.

UPON

THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS.

MU

[UST 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-murther 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 conquer'd 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' 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 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, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his soul; and thence
Shone through his body, with sweet influence;
Letting their glories so on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
VOL VIIL

Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make,
If thou this hero's altitude canst take:
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus astronomical.

Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone
More bright i' th' morn, than others beam at noon,
He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd 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
Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthiness Pandora's box?

[sprout

So many spots, like næves on Venus' soil,
One jewel set off with so many a foil;
Blisters with pride swell'd, which through 's flesh did
Like rose-buds, stuck i' th' 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 cab'net of a richer soul within?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whose corps might seem a constellation.
Oh! had he dy'd 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?
Learn'd, 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 liv'd his life out, his great fame
Had swol'n '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' th' sprig, i' th' blade the corn;
Thus without young, this phenix dies, new-born.

Kk

Must 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' hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal!

Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live
With such helps as broths, posse's, 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-ravish'd 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
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Hastings o' th' better part; so shall he live
In 's nobler half; and the great grandsire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An issue, which t' eternity shall last,
Yet but th' irradiations which he cast.
Erect no mausoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

HEROIC STANZAS ON

THE DEATH OF OLIVER CROMWELL,

WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL.

AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste, Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,,

Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.

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.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,

But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,

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

How shall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame so truly circular;
For in a round what order can be shew'd,
Where all the parts so equal perfect are?

His grandeur he deriv'd from Heaven alone;
For he was great ere Fortune made him so:
And wars, like mists that rise against the Sun,
Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.
No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,

But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring;
Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born,

With the too early thoughts of being king.

Fortune, that easy mistress to the young,

But to her ancient servants coy and hard, Him at that age her favourites rank'd among, When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard.

He private mark'd the faults of others' sway, And set as sea-marks for himself to shun: Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone.

And yet dominion was not his design;

We owe that blessing, not to him, but Heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join; Rewards, that less to him than us were given.

Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war,
First sought t' inflame the parties, then to poise:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor;

And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

War, our consumption, was their gainful trade: We inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain; He fought to end our fighting, and essay'd

To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein.

Swift and resistless through the land he past,
Like that bold Greek who did the East subdue,
And made to battles such heroic haste,
As if on wings of victory he flew.

He fought secure of fortune as of fame:

Still by new maps the island might be shown, Of conquests, which he strew'd where'er he came, Thick as the galaxy with stars is sown.

His palms, though under weights they did not stand,
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade:
Heaven in his portrait show'd a workman's hand,
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.

Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,
Which war had banish'd, and did now restore:
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air,
To seat themselves more surely than before.
Her safety rescu'd Ireland to him owes;

And treacherous Scotland, to no interest true, Yet blest that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize, as to subdue.

Nor was he like those stars which only shine,
When to pale mariners they storms portend:
He had his calmer influence, and his mien
Did love and majesty together blend.

'Tis true, his count'nance did imprint an awe;
And naturally all souls to his did bow,
As wands of divination downward draw,
And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow.

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove,
He Mars depos'd, and arms to gowns made yield;
Successful councils did him soon approve
As fit for close intrigues, as open field.

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace, Our once bold rival of the British main, Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease,

And buy our friendship with her idol, gain.

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