Luctus britannici, or, The tears of the British muses for the death of John Dryden, Esq., late poet laureat to Their Majesties, K. Charles and K. James the Second written by the most eminent hands in the two famous universities, and by several others.

LUCTUS BRITANNICI.

To the MEMORY of0 IOHN DRYDEN, Esq

WHEN Kings or Poets (greater Monarchs) die, (For even they must yield to Destiny) Who can refuse a Tribute to their Hearse? A grateful Tribute of a weeping Verse?

When Poets fall, Death strikes a general Blow, And Kings and Kingdoms share the Mighty Woe; They and their Deeds together would decay, Their Kingdoms too now ••lourishing, and gay, Must shortly yield to some fierce Enemy, And low in Ruines and Oblivion lie, Were not some pitying Poet nigh.

Troy still remains a Foyl to envious Age, And dares the Graecian's Power and Goddess's Rage; Embalm'd in Sacred Rhimes its Heroes live, Nor shall e'en Time their Memory survive: But Greece no more this Noble Song shall boast, And Rome's last Refuge is in Maro lost:

Rome govern'd still in that harmonious Song; But now the Glory does to us belong. The Mighty Dryden bears aloft the Prize, Rais'd on the Mantuan Swan away he flies, Sung his last Song, and mounted to the Skies.

Ye Sons of Art! one farewel Verse bestow, If yet your Griefs a calm of Thought allow. Numbers perhaps your Sorrows may asswage; Let Dryden then the pensive Muse engage; Dryden!—the Wonder of a wondrous Age. Dryden! The Charms of whose commanding Pen, Immortaliz'd the best and worst of Men. He rais'd forgoten Heroes from their Graves, And Re-inthron'd, whom Death had deem'd her Slaves: Fly trembling Ghost!—th' incestuous Theban raves; The frighted Laius hears, and dares not stay, But back to Acheron he wings his wondring way.

E'en now the Roman Anthony repines, And the scorn'd Globe for Love ambitiously resigns: While busie Statesmen 'gainst their Monarchs plot, Achitophel shall never be forgot.

Nor Cromwell e'er shall feel the force of Time; Now he may justly glory in his Crime, Condemn'd to Greatness by thy greater Rhime. Preposterous Kindness!—Sh—ll too in Thee Is handed down to late Posterity.

Thou didst the Greek and Roman Mines explore, Refin'dst and purifi'dst the baser Oar, Before thou land'st it on the British Shore. Thou with new Flames didst Ovid's Breast inspire; Thou charm'dst when e'er thou tun'dst the Roman Lyre; Didst with more awful Rage the Satyrists fire; Thou chac'dst the Clouds that did their Thoughts obscure, And mad'st their Streams more Chrystalline and pure. Thou'st taught Lucretius a far Nobler Song, His Numbers smoother, and his Proofs more strong. Theocritus and all the Bards of old, Compell'd by Thee their Mysteries unfold.

But stop my Muse! unable to relate His juster Glories, let us mourn his Fate. To sing his Praises gives but weak Relief; The greater was his Praise, the greater is our Grief.

When Years and Cares did Ovid's Breast invade, His Lawrels faded as his Youth decay'd,

Age too, th' Achaean Muse betray'd. But Dryden still stemm'd this unequal Tide, Did o'er these threatning Waves in Triumph ride, Laught at their Envy, and expos'd their Pride. Not Age's Frost could thy brisk Spirits bind, Or chill the active Vigour of thy Mind.

In vain did baffled Age pursue, Whilst Eagle-like, thou didst thy Bloom renew.

Thy powerful Nature felt no slow Decay; But thy (mourn'd) Night was glorious as thy Day.

Farewel bright Shade! and Triumph in the Grave; Poets in Death their truest Glories have. The well-plac'd Lawrel, which did once adorn Thy aged Brow, shall thence no more be torn: Untouch'd it shall around thy Temples spread; Kings Crown'd thee living; but Fate Crown'd thee dead.

Ch. Vi.

On this Collection of POEMS upon the Death of Mr. Dryden.

THO' well we know this Monument we frame, Can nothing add to his Immortal Name, Yet when a Theme so noble doth invite Our grateful Pens, who can forbear to write? 'Tis true that Dryden's worth there's none so well As Dryden's self in his own Works can tell; But still these Essays this new Knowledge raise, That as his Merits far exceed our Praise, So, tho' remorsless Fate did never yield For Fancy's various Flights a larger Field; Yet, He, by Sence and Judgment rais'd, more fit A Master was than Subject is of Wit.

X. Z.

On the DEATH of Mr. DRYDEN.

By a Person of QUALITY.

A Dieu! Harmonious Dryden, and receive The last poor Tribute Poetry can give. Adieu! Thou Glory of our Isle, Adieu! A long: Farewell to Poetry and YOV. With You the sweetness of our Muses die's: Deep in Your Tomb the British Genius lie's: You were our Muse's darling, ev'ry Page Of Your's she blest: Nor could the Wrongs of Age, Weaken your Vigour, nor your Warmth asswage. But now for You she droops, can scarce rehearse Some wretched Numbers to attend Your Herse. In ev'ry Strain, in ev'ry Note we hear Sad Melancholy Sounds of black Despair. Not such as when flush'd with Diviner Rage, She grew a Match for Virgil's Sacred Page: Such, as when late, on Tyber's Banks she stood, And with a decent Horror dy'd the Field with Blood. Where in each Page engaging Hero's join, And Great Aeneas fight's in ev'ry Line. All this we owe to You, Ungrateful then, If Tears and Your Just Praises we refrain.

For You our Virgins Mourn; Your Moving Strains, Were sweet as ev'ning Breezes on the Plains; Soft as the tender Sighs that fan Desire; Kind as the first approach of Amorous Fire. Your gentle Numbers ev'ry Heart cou'd move, Inspire soft Thoughts, and melt us into Love. Yet there is not a Souldier in our Isle, But shews a Manly Sorrow at Your PILE.

In You, Secure of Fame, he bravely fought; The Hero Conquer'd when the Poet Wrote: He knew your Pen wou'd well reward his Wars, And give a Noble Recompence for honest Scars▪

Vice from Your Satyr always Vanquish'd fled, Your angry Numbers struck the Monster Dead: Your happy Pen all Impious Factions quell'd, After you Wrote, no Absolom Rebell'd. Great Iuvenal amidst the Shades below, Was pleas'd, to see himself Reviv'd in You. He Smil'd, and in Elysium gave Applause, To see so Great a Second in the Cause:

What ever heretofore old Rome Admir'd, When Terence, Virgil, Horace, lay Inspir'd; When Great Lucretius form'd an Infant World, Of Justling Atoms in Confusion hurl'd: What e'er sweet Ovid's Softness cou'd Inspire; What e'er the kind Tibullus's Amorous Fire, We read in You. Why then shou'd our Esteem Be less for Dryden, than was Rome's for them? Shall we not Grieve? No, it shall ne'er be said Britain's Ungrateful, when Her Poet's Dead. Behold, the Patrons of our Isle appear, To Praise the Poet, and Adorn the Bier; With Pompous Sorrow to the Tomb they go, Mix Praise with Tears, Magnificence with Woe; And o'er his Urn erect a Noble Frame, Worthy the Poet's and the Patron's Name.

Iune 1st. Oxon▪

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq

WHilst every Tongue, and every Pen's employ'd To tell the Nation what we once Enjoy'd, My mournful Muse shall with the rest, Admire, With equal Grief, thô not with equal Fire: Each Mourner must his proper Office keep; Their business is to Praise, and mine to Weep: But, Ah! what Tongue, what Pen can ever show This fatal Loss, this dismal Scene of Woe! Mute is that Voice! and mute those Heavenly Lays! Whose wondrous Harmony alone could raise An equal Monument to Dryden's Praise! In His own Ve••e, how Glorious would he shine! The Subject and the Praises both Divine! Then might we Wit in true Perfection see, Where Thoughts and Subject mutually agree; Where brightest Language with just Numbers me••t With Virgil's Conduct, and with Pindar's Heat; Like Horace, Moving, and like Ovid, Sweet: Such happy Wonders did his Gen'rous Muse, In ev'r•• Page, and ev'ry Line Infuse. When Young, he wrote with all the sense of Age, Each sparkling Thought was Still, Sedate and Sage; When Old, was fir'd with all His youthful Rage. When his bold Muse attempts the Tragic Strain, How noble was his Stile! how rich his Vein! Each Play he gave us, was a finish'd Piece, And rival'd the Triumvirate of Greece. Then He transported us with gay Delight; But when he Pleas'd, could as severely Bite.

His piercing Rhime could smartly ridicule The Factious Senator, and Scribling Fool: How true he level'd his unerring Wit, Where every Fault, each darling Vice was hit! His Muse and Mind both the same Dress did wear, Sharp, yet not Rough, Serene, and yet Severe. When the bright Fair adorn'd his Charming Song, How smoothly did His Numbers glide along! In what soft Order did his Periods Move! Like the mild Transports of Seraphick Love: How eas'ly into Harmony they fell, We all may wond'ring view, but who can tell? Tell me ye Criticks! Can your Rules of Art, Such Heavenly Musick, with such Charms, impart? No, 'tis that noble Heat, that sparkling Fire, The Muses give, when they their Sons Inspire, That Warm's the Soul, which kindly do's dispense Such tuneful Numbers, with such shining Sense: This Dryden felt,—but ah! can feel no more; No Muse can his extinguish'd Heat restore: They only can afford their pious aid, To help the Living to lament the Dead.

Farewell Great Dryden! Thou shalt ever stand The Sacred Homer of the British Land! For ever will we offer at thy Shrine, Invoke no other Muse, but only Thine; If thou but Smile, the Work will be Divine.

Cath. Hall, Cambridge, May 16. 1700.

W. Worts.

On the Memory of the Great DRYDEN.

ON Iordan's Banks the gazing ••rophets stood, And saw the Great Elijah pass the Flood; They saw the HOST d••scend the Radiant Air, And saw Him mounted in the flaming Carr: This Glorious Scene they saw with vast Surprize; For still they gaz'd, and scarce believ'd their Eyes. So now with us, we hear the Funeral Kn••ll; The Herse is stop'd before the D••smal Cell. With flowing Eyes His Friends the Corps bemoan, And yet we cannot think our DRYDEN gone. Long fix'd Belief, is very hard Untaught, For Him Immortal, as His Works, we thought.

Hail DRYDEN! Hail! Oh! would His awful Name Inspire my Breast with His peculiar ••lame; My throbbing Soul should forth in Raptures stream, And Lofty Numbers dress the Lofty Theme. I'd sing the Labou•••• 〈…〉〈…〉 Pen, And Mourn the Nation's loss of such a God-like Man.

What did he not to Fame a wretched Age? What wondrous Scenes he gave the thankless Stage? Survey His Works! see the stupendious P••le! Without the Dross, the Gold of all our Isle. What Noble Wit through ev'ry Volume shine's? What sparkling Thoughts adorn the sparkling Lines? The Grecian Wits He brought unravell'd home, And wove 'em richer in the British Loom.

Great Plautus's Ghost Rejoic'd to hear it told, Our Dryden mix'd his Stuff with Threds of Gold. His hand alone could mould our Rugged Tongue, And make it bend to Iuvenal's Biting Song. Majestick Maro too He fetch'd from Rome, And made him Thriumph here, as once at Home. Oh! had he Liv'd, what wou'd he not have done? What Wonders had his boundless Soul begun? With Tears I must Great Homer's Loss rehearse, Redeem'd e'er this, from base degrading Verse. Close on the Stygian Verge the Genius stood, Ready to take the Bark, and stem the Flood. What Joy it felt! How did the Phantom smile! Charm'd with the hopes of visiting our Isle! Poor cheated Shade! back to your Mansion go, N••ne dares attempt to waft you over now. The Piece the Fam'd Apelles once began, Could ne'er be finish'd by another Man. Who now will care a British Muse to read? The Soul! the God of English Verse is Dead!

Yet, after all His great Atchievements done, Of whi••h the least a Deathless Wreath has won; Some wretched Men, (I speak it to their Shame) Have drawn their Impious Pens to daub His Fame; Tho all their spight could not provoke His Ire, Nor did He make the trifling things retire; But Lion-like, disdain'd Ignoble Wars, And scorn'd to turn, and tear the whifling Curs.

But stay, Methinks I see Great Congreve Frown, And Southern look's with Indignation down,

To see an Unlearn'd Pen▪ unknown to Fame, In tuneless Lines Prophane their Father's Name: My Muse, at sight of Theirs, is Aw'd and gone, As twinkling Stars expire before the Sun.

Doddershall in Com. Bucks, May 28th. 1700.

A. M.

On the DEATH of Mr. DRYDEN.

DEad! No, 'tis all Mistake, he cannot Die; Who e'er like Him secures His Memory. His Soul, and Fame how e'er his Body die, Shall share unequal Immortality. Tho Common Fate require his Vital breath, H•• still is safe, and born to Fame in Death. His Works with each succeeding Age shall vie, And only with all humane Nature die. Inferior Wits, like less••r Stars, each Age, Have found with twinkling 〈…〉〈…〉 S••age; But He, like Blazing-Star, more rare in Sight, Was rich in Wit, Extravagant in Light. But this unwonted Fate, 'bove all we fear, Thô he dy'd Rich, yet none can be his Heir.

Hen. Hoyle▪ A. M. Trin. Col. Cantab.

On the Death of Mr. John Dryden.

LEt others, when some Mighty Man they'd Praise, And Tro••hies ••qual to His Merits raise, A single Muse Invoke, t' Inspire their Lays: But now there's need of all the Sacred Nine Nay, Phoebus too must in the Concert join, To make the Numbers Sweet, to make the Thoughts Divine.

He's gone, the Glory of our English Stage, The Learned'st Poet in the Learned'st Age. Soft was His Verse, and Charming was his Song, His Genius sprightly, and his Fancy young. Ev'n Age on Him had no Imp••ession made; The Poet Flourish'd, thô the Man D••cay'd.

They say indeed, Art's long, and Life but Short; But 'tis not always so— For thô he did the utmost bounds of Knowledge find, They were not half so large as his Capacious Mind.

What thô Impartial Fate ha's taken Him away, Reduc'd His Body to its Native Clay? Yet in His Works he will for ever live, In Congreve too his Glory will survive; Congreve the Lawful Heir of all his Sense, His Language, Fancy, and his Eloquence; To which Estate none else can make Pretence.

B. K. Trin. Col. Cantab. Alum.

To the Memory of the truly Honoured JOHN DRYDEN, Esq

By a Young LADY.

DIsconsolate Britannia Mourning sate, Sighs told her Loss, and Tears Neander's Fate: Each recollected Line, renew'd Her Care, And ev'ry Thought Inhanc'd her vast Despair. Thus Gen'rous Grief, long struggl'd in Her Breast, But want of Language, Passion's Voice supprest: At last, spring-tides of Sorrow Silence broke, And, in an Agony, these words she spoke;

Ye Pow'rs above, that Rule this Earthly Stage; Ye Sacred Numens of the present Age, What has Britannia done, to meet your Hate? Why is she punish'd in Neander's Fate? Could none but He, have made your Anger known? Could nothing l••ss than He, your Wrath atone? He, whom Apollo's sacred Self Inspir'd; Envy'd by many, but by most Admir'd: Who gave us Virgil in our Native Tongue; And Absalom's Misfortunes so Divinely Sung.

DRYDEN! on whom each Science did attend, The gr••atest Genius, and the greatest Friend; Who Iuvenal and Persius overcame; He taught them English, yet preserv'd their Flame.

With Worlds of Words He did our Speech Refine, And Manly strength with Modern softness join: Each Language made subservient to His end, And those Acquiests as bravely did Defend.

Not Fam'd Timotheus could with greater ease Command our Anger▪ or our Wrath appease: True Measure with his Verse, our Passions kept, And as He Pleas'd, we either Smil'd, or Wept. How Noble was His Stile, Sublime his Thought! How nicely Just was ev'ry Piece he wrote! But with His last, what Numbers can compare? Not dying Swan's more Sweet and Regular.

And till Neander Grac'd the British Sphere, How abject did our Muses Sons appear! They Coasted by the Shoar a Lazy way, But all the Inlands Undiscover'd lay: Wit's Empire Dryden boldly did explore, And like the Hero, could have Wept for more; But Gen'rously He 〈…〉〈…〉 Rage, And for His Albion's sake, His Passion did asswage: Through gloomy Shades unlighted by the day, And Heights untrod, He forc'd an open way: For ev'ry Province Beacons did provide, And marks succeeding Travellers to guide: Then gave us Charts of what was long Conceal'd, And to th' admiring World, th' Incognita reveal'd.

Oh! had ye lengthen'd out His fleeting Hours; Had he but liv'd t'ave made Great Homer ours; Redeem'd his injur'd Sire, and set him free From Chapman, Hobb's, and mangling Ogilby:

How had the Bard exulted in his mind! And with what Pleasure his Great Soul resign'd!

But ah! Britannia, thou complain'st too late; There's no reversing the Decrees of Fate; In vain we Sigh, in vain alas, we Mourn, Th' Illustrious POET never will return. All like himself he Dy'd, so calm so free, As none could equal, but his Emily.

Weep, weep, Britannia, never cease thy Tears, But still encrease thy Sorrow with thy Years: 'Twas mighty Dryden gave thy Island Fame, And made that Honour lasting, with his Name. This said—She Pensively reclining lay, And spent with Grief, wore out the tedious day: When sudden Beams of Light around her broke, And in a Vision, thus Apollo spoke.

Much lov'd Britannia, from this Posture rise, Lament no more, nor dull thy beautous Eyes: See where thy Dryden at my Elbow stand's, And with what Pow'r he now the Nine Command's: To gain his Plaudit, how they all aspire, And he the Genius is of Albion's Tuneful Quire. Then up thou sluggish Isle, revere his Name Let all thy Sons my Dryden's Worth proclaim, And in Elegiac Numbers celebrate his Fame.

To the Memory of John Dryden Esq

WIth flouds of Tears, and with unbounded Grief, We Mourn the Muse departed in Her Chief; As ev'ry Poet Crown'd with Cypress, pay's And Consecrates the Lawrel to Thy Praise; Weeping to see such Hoary Merits fall, And blaming Fate's irrevocable Call.

Oh! sacred Bard, in whose instructive Strains, Maro••s high Sense, with Maro's Beauty reign's; In whose Translations, we their Author's see, And truly know their Worth, by knowing Thee. Accept the Sorrows which thy Sons bestow, And Sighs, which from our Breasts incessant flow; Grief is the only Off'ring we can give, Since thou who taught'st us Verse, ha'st ceas'd to Live: Not, but thy Poems Dare the Fatal Pow'rs, And give that Life Thou can'st not take from Ours.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 B••rridge, Gent.

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq

GReece had a Homer; Rome a Virgil lost, And well Britannia do's her Dryden Boast: And still shall Boast the Beauties of the Dead, And with the freshest Bays adorn his Head. The Sacred Wreath, that long so well was worn, Shall now no more be from His Temples torn; No more of slighted Merit we complain, Now Tom the Second, may securely Reign.

Hail mighty Bard, that ha'st for half an Age, Reign'd Lord of Wit, and Monarch of the Stage! Who can compare, or match such mighty Force? That cou'd so swift set out, and yet keep on the Course! We oft have Poets seen, that well cou'd please, Out-live their Wit, as some their Prophecies. Thus Learned Cr—ch, sung Horace to his Cost; Thus Paradice was in re-gaining lost.

Where shall I first endeavour to commend? The Task is hard, but harder where to end. The perfect'st Poem that the Age can show, To Your inimitable Pen we owe: Thô some dispute the Prize, yet sure there's none That can compare with beautious Absolon: The Thought so just, Your Turns so Ravishing, As void of blemish, as the Youth you sing.

Althô the Panther be but half Divine, Yet for one Fault, a thousand Beauties shine. 'Twou'd have had 〈…〉〈…〉 Wit, Had it less Partially been Read, or Writ. Mac Flekno still will in thy Verse be known, When he shall be forgotten in his own. Thus, thô of Maevius, nothing now survives, The Sot Lampoon'd in Virgil, ever Lives.

Hail happy Bard, that doubly dost excell! At once to Write so much, and Write so well! Age, that in others doth the Sense decay, And with the Man the Poet wears away,

Made mighty Thee but more Correct and scarce Thy Face it Furrow'd, but it fill'd thy V••rs••; And what in Memory it pass'd away, It did much more in juster Judgment pa••: Thus when the Sun dart's up its Weste••n Rays, Thô not so warm, it cast's a brighter blaze: In ev'ry Line, the fire of Youth we see; Nor is thy latest Work, unworthy Thee. New Cloath'd by You, how Chaucer we ••steem; When You've new Polish'd it, how bright the Jem! And lo, the Sacred Shade for thee make's room, Thô Souls so like, should take but up o••e Tomb.

Oh! had You liv'd to give us all Your Sire, And shew'd th' Unlearned World the Grecian Fire, Homer, who do's all Mortal Men excel, The first that wrote, and last that wrote so well, You had the Bard from Chapman's Chains s••t free, As Virgil You red••em'd from Ogilby.

Long ha's He been with two Translations Curst, Both bad, but the Philosopher's the worst: Both have Burlesq'd Him with assiduous Toil, And Greek, as well as Hebrew, Sternholt's Spoil.

All own You had enough of Fame before, And only by Your Death cou'd purchase more. To value You aright, an Age we want, (Age that improve's both Poetry and Paint) Then will thy Name to Verse a Sanction give, And DRYDEN will as long as Numbers, live.

Thus. when at Statues of an Attick Hand, With long Delight, Mankind admiring stand; And on the Mould, a••d on the shining Mass, With Ardour, and with Adoration gaze, So soft the Marble, and so smooth the Brass. But while they're wondring who so well Design'd, If on the bulging Base, they Phidias find, Thô from the Name, it no new Worth receive's, The Noble Pi••ce, a vaster Value give's.

Hail mighty Master of thy Mother Tongue, More smooth than Waller▪ or than Denham strong! Pompous in Praise, in Satyr as Sev••re, As Cowly W••tty, as Roscommon, Clear. What secret Magick lye's in ev'ry Verse, That does so move the Mind▪ so pl••ase the Ears! That Tune••ul Turn, that Charming M••stery, You sh••w'd to none but Noble Normanby; Or if to any other Bard 'tis known, 'Tis to ••ngaging Garth, and Addison, The fittest now to fill thy Vacant Throne.

Let us look back, and N••ble Numbers trace Directly up from Ours, to Chaucer's days; Chaucer, the first of Bards in Tune that Sung, And to a better bent reduc'd the stubborn Tongue.

Spencer upon his Master much Refin'd, He Colour'd sweetly, thô he ill Design'd; T••o mean the Mod••l for so vast a Mind. Thus while 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to make his Stanza's Chime, Good Chri••••ian Thoughts turn Renegade to Rhime.

'Twas Fairfax first the sounding Couplet taught, His Diction Noble, and sublime his Thought; From whose fair Copy, well our Waller wrote; But what he wanted Life or Pow'r to do, Is happily at last atchiev'd by You. And as what Virgil, and what Horace sung, Is still the Standard of the Latin Tongue, So will Thy Works to long Posterity, The Touch-stone of our British Poesy be. Thus, when Old Rome had reach'd her utmost height, She quickly bent beneath th' unweildy Weight. Thus towring Tides, that can no farther flow, Must to their Father Ocean bacward go.

Henry Hall.

A PASTORAL, On the Death of Mr. DRYDEN.

Damon. Alexis.

Dam.

TEll me Alexis, tell thy faithful Swain, Why my lov'd Shepherd thus forsake's the Plain? Now in this cheerful Season of the Year, When smiling Nymphs fresh Garlands do prepare, Why shou'd the lov'd Alexis Disappear? Thy Flocks are well, thy Charming Nisa's kind, And Damon love's thee too, nor can'st thou find, Beyond all these, ought to affect thy Mind.

Alexis.

Ah Damon that ungrateful Search decline, I've News will shock thy Breast, as well as mine;

Thou may'st besure it is no common thing, Can drive me from the Glories of the Spring; No Vulgar Sorrow could prevail above Care of my Flocks, and Thine and Nisa's Love. Know'st thou, Palaemon? D— That you might have spar'd, What Swain of Great Palaemon ha's not hear'd? When their best Arts the Rival Shepherds try'd, I hear'd Palaemon the Great Cause decide, With such a Grace he clos'd the envious Fray, That both the Jarring Youths went Pleas'd away. Oft with commanding skill He'd Charm the Plains, And ravish with soft Airs, th' attentive Swains, Who doubt if Pan himself ha's sweeter Strains. We chuse May-Lady before long, and then, I hope to hear his Tuneful Voice agen.

Alexis.

Alas! fond Youth, thy fruitless hopes give o'er, This Great, this Lov'd Palaemon is no more; Breathless and Cold, the lost Palaemon li••'s, Cold as this Earth, thus moisten'd from mine Eyes.

Damon.

Forbid it Pan! and yet it must be so, My mind presents the boding Omen now, Which only could Palaemon's Death foreshew. You knew the well-grown Captain of my Flock, Fairest and best of all my Fleeces Stock; High on his branching front he bore the Bell, Which to th' inferior Herd did Danger tell, When e'er the treach'rous Woolf a Slaughter meant, He rung th' Alarm, and baulk't the sly Intent. Th' obsequious Flock ne'er from their Leader rov'd, Nor tasted Grass, but what he first approv'd.

This valu'd Sheep, a little while ago, Sunk and Expir'd before the Wat'ring Trough; The cause to me unknown; and as He fell, A rev'rend Nod, rung out the fatal Kn••ll; With great amaze, th' unwelcome sound I hear'd, Much griev'd my Loss, but more the Omen fear'd.

Alexis.

Shepherd, thy fears were Just, the sad portent Is fatally explain'd in this Event; For as that Sheep thy wand'ring Flock did lead, Just so Palaemon did the Shepherds Head. When growing Worth reach'd forward to the Bays, He would with Joy, the bold Pretender raise, And be himself the Herald to his Praise. Fix'd high in fame, He gladly did dispense To blooming Wit, a rip'ning Influence, If o'er inform'd, the Muse would soar too high, And on advent'rous Pinions sought the Sky; To bring her gently down, he knew the Lure, And made her fall Delightful and Secure, Or should her flames on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Wing•• aspir••, With active Vigour he'd improve the Fire. But while I strive to pay the Debt I owe To His commanding Skill, I only Show How high it was in Him, in me, how low. Yet this I have however, to excuse The flowing Error of a Mourning Muse, That when this uninspir'd Scroll was writ, W'had lost the Genius of our English Wit.

T. A.

An Essay on the Death of Mr. Dryden.

THe justest Grief that can on Fate attend, We owe the loss of Father, and of Friend. Mourn ev'ry Muse, let all your Streams be dry. But such as Sorrows lavish from the Eye, That only can Inspire with Elegy. To all Your softer Charms, a long adieu, Those Beauties Sacred Bard, are lost with you; Our Oracles are ceas'd, our Language dies, We've scarce Expression left us, but in Sighs.

Fain would I pay the mighty Debt I owe, In flowing Words, but Tears will only flow. My kindling flame, You kindly fann'd and taught T' ascend above, and stop below a Fault. By Precept and Example, form'd my Mind, And Wisdom's stricter bounds to Wit assignd: By others faults, instructed me to choose With care, the Graceful, for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 guilty blush. Shew'd me where weighty Words, where Figures please; And where fair Nature shines without a Dress. And all the Sterling Wealth my Issue wear's, I own the fertile Product of Your Cares. But now in vain are all those Labours spent; The Muse can only help me to Lament.

Tell me, Ye Widowed Nine, for You can tell, By all how Lov'd, how Prais'd, how Mourn'd he fell. The Genius of our Isle! He brought us home The Learned Spoils of Athens, and of Rome.

And in our Native Tongue, by him Refin'd, Their richest Oar, is with His Numbers join'd. With Homer's plenty, His Didactics flow; Yet Virgil's Care, their chast Expressions show. More num'rous Joys not Horace could Inspire, Nor touch with cleaner hands the charming Lyre. When artless Nature He essay'd, the Fair Felt Ovid's Softness, and Tibullus's Air. And to suppress the blooming growth of Vice, The fire, and force of Iuvenal was His. Terence ne'er pleas'd a judging Audience With juster Characters, or weightier Sense. Nor Martial could in Miniature express A closer Thought, or better Praise and Please. What happy Genii furnish'd later Time With useful Numbers, were but Types of Him: They each excell'd in some one shining Part Of Verse, but He in all the Sacred Art.

Ye Pious Few, that to the Muse belong, Pay at his T••••b th•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 o•• your Song: And tell the list'ning World, no Age must know Another Universal Mind below. Tell all the Great and Good, their Glorious Aim, And conscious Worth, must now suffice for Fame. And tell the brightest Stars in either Sphere, No Vertue soar'd above his Flights, but Their: Thither th' aspiring Bard is Wing'd away, Where her bright Fires guild an Eternal day, To sing with His, Her still united Rays. —But here Expression fails; a thoughtful Breast, Too big for Words, can only feel the rest.

An ODE, On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By a Young LADY.

I.

AS when Plebeians at a Monarch's Death, (Which should not be Prophan'd by Vulgar Breath) With sawcy Grief, bewail the Fate Of him they fear'd, almost Ador'd of late, Presumptuous in their Tears, thô helpless in their State. So I the Muse's meanest Subject join The Sorrows of the Great, with mine; And thô I cannot Tribute pay, T' acknowledge Their Imperial Sway, With arrogant, yet conscious Grief presume To shed a Tear at Their Vicegerent's awful Tomb.

II.

Ah! who could think that God-like Man, Immortal in our Thoughts, as in His own, Should have no greater Favour shown; And thô with ev'ry Art and Grace Endow'd, Should have a Life but of the usual Span, And shrink into a Common Shroud: Yet shall not His unequal'd Merit die, Nor all the wrongs of Fate, His Lawrels blast, Thô Albion's Realms should be Destroy'd and Wast, And in forgotten Ruins lye, Fame's ecchoing Trump His Glories shall rehearse To all the wond'ring Universe, Till its shrill Voice be swallow'd up in what shall sound the Last.

III.

Sure, Poets are not made of Common Earth; Or He at least may boast a Nobler Birth: He, who in ev'ry Atom was Inspir'd With flowing Fancy, and with Rapture fir'd; Thô the great Secret's not disclos'd, He surely was, like Thebes, with artful Tunes Compos'd. The Voices of the soft Melodious Nine In Consort join'd Apollo's forming Lyre, And Light ineffable infus'd its Fire, With Tuneful Measures, Harmony Divine, At the glad, Sacred, all-commanding Sound, With Animation, passing Vulgar Thought, The knowing, willing Atoms came, And danc'd into the Sacred Frame, And bless'd Idea's brought, Which fill'd His Soul, and Ours with Rapture drown'd.

IV.

It must be so—for nothing else could dart Such Beams of Knowledge, and Celestial Art, So clear a Judgment, and so bright a Mind; Like it's Almighty Maker, ever Young, And amid'st Weakness, Strong; Thô Age and Sickness both against it join'd. But why did Phoebus and the Nine A Piece so Perfect make? If we their Workmanship must now resign, And they again the Blessing take? Why was Thy Body, most Illustrious Shade, Like others made?

Subject to Casualties and Fate, And comon ills, which wait a Mortal State? When thy Celestial Mind Had nothing of base Human kind, But full of Inspiration spread It's noble Ardour, and its God-like Rage, Whose Works shall be with Pleasure read, By ev'ry coming Age. And Fame shall make Thee Live, thô Fate has made Thee Dead.

V.

Apollo once before a Temple bless'd, Where all th' Inquisitive might come For an Ambiguous Doom; And splendid Pomp amaz'd the Curious Guest, Yet with less Glory could at Delphos shine, Where Floors of Marble, Roofs of Gold, Did his Orac'lous God-head hold, Than in thy living Shrine. There He was check'd with a Priest-riding Yoke, Nor till the Block-head pleas'd, the God-head spoke. But Phoebus ha's been always free, And spoke without restraint in Thee. In Thee with the same Pomp His Rays appear'd, As when upon his bright Imperial Seat, Where He the shining Scepter rear'd, Beyond Expression great. But Oh! that Deity is Silent now! Silent as is Thy Tomb, which claim's our Tears, No more the God within thy Voice appear's Nor speak's through Thee what we should know, As from thy Lips the Graces flow.

As from thy Lips the Graces flow, But all the lesser Lights of Wit Expire, All glimmering lye, And with declining Fire, Since He, from whom they took their Light, Has wing'd His flight, And set's not in the Seas, but in the Sky.

VI.

Farewell to Inspiration now, All Sacred extasies of Wit, The softer Excellence Of melting Words, and moving Sence; Ye will no more with tempting sweetness flow, But Poetry must now submit To the bold, Enthusiastick Rage Of a Malicious Age: Which stead of Wonders, Monsters must bring forth, To stock the Times with want of Worth, And break the Poets, as they break the Stage.

VII.

Pythygoras his Doctrin m••ch I doubt, Or else if Thy Great Soul should Transmigrated be, It might be Parcell'd out. And stock each Age with Lawreat's till Eternity. Oh! where is that Harmonious Soul of thine, Teaching more Tuneful Numbers to the Sphere? Or making Stars with greater Lustre shine, Or hov'ring through th' extended space thy long Eternity of Years?

No—into Sacred Shades Thou'rt gone; The Souls of Poets needs must thith••r fly, (I'm sure they Lovers live, how e'er they di••) But Thou so many Laurels here hast won, As soon will plant a new Elysium of thy own: Triumphant sit beneath Thy Verdant Shade Of ever blooming Wreaths, which less than those will sade Which are below for Laurels made. Then Virgil the R••nown'd, the Great, May keep His ancient Regal Seat, Which there at thy approach he must resign, For well he knows, Wit's Throne is Thine, And thou deserv'st the guidance of the Learned State.

VIII.

And lo! with humblest Thanks He greet's that Hand, Which so succesfully ha's taught, His long fam'd Works, the Language of our Land, With Art in ev'ry Line, and Grace in ev'ry Thought. None their intrinsick Value can deny▪ The well-plac'd Pride of ancient Rome, Polish'd by Thee, is now Our Boast become. Sparkling with all the Glories of true Poetry, And take's from all a just and happier Doom. Orpheus, and all the Tuneful Spirits there, With Joys new Dated celebrate thy Fame, In an Eternal, soft Celestial Air, For all the Honours Thou hast done that slighted, injur'd Name.

IX.

And We, who drown'd in Tears, are left behind, Are all employ'd about Thee too; And thô thy Worth too great a Theme we find, At least our Gratitude and Grief we shew. Our best Encomiums but Prophane Thy Name, Unless a Congreve would a Piece design, Whose Numbers, as they're dear to Fame, Can Justice do to Thine. My well-meant Trophy blushing I must rear, Unkind Melpomene afford's no aid, Thô I so often begg'd and Pray'd, My weaker Voice she would not hear. Amongst the mighty Men She's busi'd now, They, They, I find, best Charm Immortal Females too. Thô she'll not teach what Measures I shall keep, Nor in Heroicks will my Wonder dress, Nor in a softer Ode my Grief express, 'Tis my own fault (being Woman) if I cease to Weep. Since this Great Man Fate's rigid Laws obey'd, How is Wit's Empire lessen'd and decay'd! It scarce a Province now appears; Come, then 'tis Politick to join your Tears; Forbear not till an Ocean round it flows, And it an Island grows, It may be safe encompass'd with our Sea, But never Fortunate can be While Nonsence shall have Friends, and Sence have Foes.

May 7^th. 1700.

S. F.

Upon the Death of Mr. DRYDEN. By Mr. Digby Cotes, of Magdalen-Hall, Oxon▪ A Young Gentleman, Sixteen Years Old.

WHen now at length the Great Apollo's Dead, And ev'ry Muse with its lov'd Patron's fled, What daring Bard will venture to set forth His mighty Name, and celebrate His Worth? Whose least Perfections our whole Wonder raise, Despise our Envy, and transcend our Praise. Himself alone, could His vast Beauties shew, And all the Poet in Perfection draw; Could trace each finer Thought, each Heav'nly Line, And make himself in His full Lustre shine. Then had the God-like Absalom reveal'd A Nobler Plot, than he himself Conceal'd, Then might Achitophel again be View'd, And all his Image in His Son renew'd; Factious and turbulent, new Plots he lay's, And still the false Achitophel betrays: Yet such fair Baits the specious Plots Disguise. We scarce discern the Well-wrought Artifice. But think ev'n St—y True, and M—th Wise. Thus when some meaner Thoughts Thy Muse engage, And Mac or B—e urge thy juster Rage; So much their Folly's, in their Writings sink, That the vile Scriblers seem at least to think. Methoughts I saw the mighty Phoebus fir'd With just Revenge, with all His Rage Inspir'd; Full of Himself, through Heav'ns vast Space he rode, While sparkling Flames confess'd the angry God. Neglected Dryden all involv'd His Rage, And claim'd just Vengeance on a barb'rous Age. With Grief he view'd Him strugling with His Fate, Opprest with Wants, and despicably Great.

While all her self His drooping Muse betray'd, And Nature's rising Efforts, thô decay'd, When these Prophetick Curses eas'd His Breast, And thus, the lab'ring God his Rage exprest. Since Charming Dryden has so late confest Your base returns, and prov'd your barb'rous tast, Still may your long successive Dulness reign, Still may your Sons the War with Wit maintain; Let C—e still the Ladies Pity raise, And Torture one poor Maid a thousand ways, While pleas'd or Griev'd, she still the Mourning Bride be∣trays. Let Ways o'th' World in three dull years be writ, And want of time, excuse his want of Wit. M•••• your nice Tasts contemn each Nobler Art, While all things pass rewarded, but Desert. Again, let Blustring B—y huff the Age, With words more dreadful than his Tyrant's Rage; He said; When strait his Messengers he sent, And to himself recall'd the Treasure he had lent. Th' afflicted Bard receiv'd the glad Command, And urg'd himself his Hast, and left th' ungrateful Land. Thus, af••••r many long revolving Years, When the last Series of her Life appears, The Noble Phoenix hast's Her sluggish Date With lighted Torch, and urge's on her Fate. Her mighty self involve's her numerous Fame, While on her Death depend's her future Name, Her self, her self survive's, and sparkl's from the Flame. This well-known Truth, let long Experience prove, We hate what's Present, but what's absent, love; Still rival'd Malice haunts our envy'd breath, And Poets only Triumph after Death.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

FArewell, Oh more than Greece or Rome cold boast, More Worth than all those two fam'd Empires lost. Great Poet, whose Unimitable Arts, A Thousand ways engag'd the Readers Hearts; Thy Verse so T••neful, so sublime thy Song, Thy Turns so delicate, thy Periods strong. Whose solid Judgment held the guided Reins, Whilst Fancy soar'd beyond M••eonian Strains. Apollo Crown'd Thee with Triumphant Bays, The Muses tun'd their Voices to thy Lays, And all the Learned World gave Thee unenvy'd Praise. Since L••rick Songs have rais'd a Lasting Name, Since ••ne Admired Poem could Proclaim, As well the Poets, as the ••eroe's Fame, Since moving Strains of Tender Love have made, Ner••e-dying Laurels flourish round a Head. And Pointed Satyrs F••rce alone prefer'd, To Endless Ages the Censorious Bard, How, Oh Transcendent Dryden, can we raise, To thy unequal'd Numbers equal Praise? When all their Talents made not up thy One, Which Nobler grew, as they became thy own. Like Fruits Transplanted to a Warmer Sun. Thy Mem'ry ever Sacred will survive, Thy matchless Works that common Bounty give, And you in them, like other Poets, live. But as you flourish'd Albion's Pride and Grace, And she in you did all the World surpass, Sure she'l contrive some Monument unknown, To show her Gratitude, and thy Renown, And out do All, as Thou hast All ourdone.

C.H—ton.

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq

Hunc quoque summa dies, nigro summersit Aver••o, Effugi••t Avidos Carmina sola rogos. Ovid. in mortem 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Coelestial Muse, whose God-head could inspire, The Bards of Old, with Rays of Genial Fire. And Teach 'em with Harmonious Tunes to raise, Immortal Structures, to their Hero's praise; By whom ev'n late Posterity might know, How much the greatest Men to Poets owe. You that our Orpheus, could such numbers Teach, And Learn'd the Mantuan Swan what Notes to reach. When he of burning Ilium's Turrets Sung, And told poor Dido's Love, and Dido's wrong. You that this Island with a Cowley blest, And chose Immortal Dryden from the rest. To rule the Muses Land with powerful Sway, And make the British Tongue his Art obey, That we with wonder might his Works peruse, And find a Rival for great Homer's Muse.

If yet remains one Spark of Living Fire, That did not with your Dryden's Life Expire. Let me a while with Zealous sorrow tell, How much he thought, and Writ, and yet how well, How long he Envy'd Liv'd, yet how Lamented fell! But Oh how fond it is to wish? how vain! To hope for that, which we can ne're obtain? None but a Dryden, should of Dryden Write, And he (alass!) is set in endless Night. At rest he lies within the silent Grave, Not its own Verse could it's own Master Save. Death knew not Harmony, nor felt the Charms Of Verse, but close within it's Icy Arms. It Clasp'd the Bard, whilst to its Natives Skies, His Rising Soul enlarg'd from Bondage flies.

Where now his Numbers most Serenely flow, On Nobler Subjects, than he chose below.

Farewell, Thou great Departed Shade Farewell, No Humane Tongue, our Grief or Loss can tell. Thy Muse no more with her inchanting lays, To Extasy, our Wondring Souls can raise. No more our Breasts with gentle raptures move, Describing the immortal Joys of Love. As the bleak Winter stops the Warbling Breath Of Philomel, so Thine is stopt by Death; But with this Difference, the returning Spring, Renews her Voice, and she again will Sing. Again run all her Mournful Musick ore, But thou (alas!) must Write, must Sing no more.

'Tis true thou long hadst left th' ungrateful Stage, Where only Congreve now can please this Age. Congreve the Darling of the Sacred Nine! Whose Charming Numbers only yield to Thine. Yet still new Worlds of Wit, Thy Cares Explor'd, We Read with Wonder what we still ador'd, In English Dress we View great Maro's Song, Nor has Thy Version done its Author wrong; So justly wrought, so lofty, smooth, and fine. That when the Latin we compare with Thine, Which Merits most our praise its hard to tell; He Wrote, and thou Translatedst him, so well. Nay hadst thou liv'd, thy Muse had brought from Greece, A Nobler Treasure, than the Golden Fleece. Achilles then, upon the Brittish plain, Had fought and mourn'd his Dear Patroclus Slain. Then Chast Penelope had wept to prove, An absent Husband had her present Love. And we all Wondring at her Arts had stood. To see her by such Grecian Nobles Woo'd. Yet still refuse them, with an Air Divine; Though Courted in such Magick Verse as Thine. But thus it will not be—The Muse is fled, A••d there amongst the mighty Rivals, dead.

Methinks I see the Reverend Shades prepare With Songs of Joy, to waft thee through the Air. And lead Thee o're the bright Aetherial Fields, To tast the Bliss which their Elizium yields. Whe••e Chaucer, Iohnson, Shakespear, and the rest, Kindly embrace their venerable Guest, Then in a Chorus sing an Ode of Praise, And Crown thy Temples with Eternal Bays. Whilst we in pensive Sables clad below Bear hence in solemn Grief, and pompous Woe, Thy sacred Dust to Chaucer's peaceful Urn, And round thy awful Tomb profusely mourn. Here take thy rest, enjoy thy sweet repose, Death has secur'd thy Mem'ry from thy Foes; And though my Verse must perish as its born, If thy great Name protect it not from scorn. Thine, thine shall live when Time shall have no Name, Eternal in its Beauties, and its Fame.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

FArewel thou Chiefest of the Sons of Fame▪ Ev'n I, who formerly presum'd ••o blame▪ Now change my Stile, and Celebrate thy Name Not that I writ with Prejudice, or Spite, But might too warmly vindicare the Right— But dy thy Faults and Mine—and with 'em dy All vain, Religious Animosity The Seamless Coat, by our Divisions torn, Is by the py-ball'd Sects in Patches worn; Each has its Rent (and they no more require) Which we, agreeing, shou'd pr••serve intire.

The way thus clear'd: Lo! Noble Ghost, I come, One of thy num'rous Train, to sing Thee home; The Triumphs of thy Numbers to proclaim, And join my Voice with theirs, whose Voice is Fame.

Scarce did Thy Phoebus soar a loftier pitch, Than what thy own Aspiring Notes cou'd reach: They did not strain to rise, or faintly fly, But with a Seraph's Pinion wingd the Sky: While list'ning Angels did thy Layes admire, And wish Thee there in the Celestial Quire, Thy Human with their Heav'nly Songs to join, To make the Concert perfectly Divine.

But tho' to Honour Thee we all agree, What can we add to thy Repute, or Thee? Short-liv'd and vain is all th' Applause we give; Our Lines must dye, and only Yours will live.

When Homer (who is, now Thy nearest Mate) Was call'd from Earth to his Immortal State, That Life and Glory with the Gods to share, Which has been since so Celebrated he••e; The Youth of Greece, no doubt, as One, did join, All grateful to his Fame, as we to Thine: It e••'••y Breast did warm to an Extreme, To be the first on such a glorious Theme: Yet not a Line, and not a Name we see, His vastly louder Fame has Theirs engrost, As Human Voices are in Thunder lost: The Greater Blaze of Light the Less o'er-pow'rs; And so Thy Verse will once Extinguish Ours.

He 'twas that did the Grecian Language rear, To all the Strength and Loftiness 'twou'd bear. The Latin, Virgil seated in the Skies, And beyond which it cou'd no higher rise. And you, the Third, have fixt the British Tongue, To run as Copious, and to last as long: Made by thy Purity of Phrase and Sense, Not capable of further Excellence. So God his Bounds to the wide Ocean laid, And told it—Hither come—And here be staid.

This Fate, besides, peculiarly You bear, In which no Writer ever yet cou'd share: You saw, your Self, your Empire fixt in Peace, And grown so large as not t'admit increase. Where e're their Verse prevail'd, You liv'd to know Your own receiv'd alike Triumphant too; Diffusing Wit, and giving Wings to Fame, There were the Roman Eagles never came.

To grieve were vain—We cannot call Thee lost, While Britain stands Thou shalt be Britain's boast: Tho' thy Immortal Mind's retir'd, we find A no less Everlasting Part behind. Your Works and You, by a stupendous Doom, Like Ianus, may to Deity presume; Thou there see'st all that's Past, and They'l see all to Come.

••Twas then we sigh'd, when Otway from us torn, Made all the Loves and all the Graces mourn: Ev'n yet the Stage her Darling's Loss complain, Charming his Face, and charming were his Strains! 'Twas then we sigh'd when fatal Frenzy siez'd Thy Faithful Lee— who never writ but pleas'd: Tho' cooler Pens his Youthful Ardor blame, Without his Fire, they'l never reach his Fame. Twas then we sigh'd when Oldham fell a prey, Cropt by a sudden Blite, before his Day: His Loss we all did with Impatience bear, And every Muse bemoan'd Him with a Tear. So they again wou'd Sigh, shou'd Congreve be, An Early Instance of Mortalitie; And the Expecting World (so seldom kind) Lose all the Wonders that are yet behind, In the unbounded Treasures of the Mind. So wou'd they Mourn shou'd Southerne leave the Stage, So just to Comick Wit, and Tragick Rage: Southerne, who, singing Oro••noko's Flame, Has made his own a like Immortal Name.— But Thee 'twere almost Impious to deplore; We had Thee all—and Fate cou'd give no more:

With Peace, Applause, with Years and Lawrels Crown'd, And Life, nor Fame cou'd make Thee more Renown'd.

Robert Gould.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

DRYDEN, and Dead! what Eccho did I hear, That Groan'd such dismal Accents in my Ear? Eccho, 'tis false, for Dryden cannot dye; He'll Live Immortal as his Poetry. Dryden! the Glory of the English Stage, Sprightly in Youth, and Vigorous in Age. So Charmingly the matchless Dryden Writ, Engrossing the Monopoly of Wit. So choice each Word, so well compact each Line; Each feature Graceful, and each thought Divine, Show'd him the Fav'rite of the sacred Nine. In Dryden's ever-living Works are shown, The Antient Poets all Comprized in one; His Predecessours by far diff'rent ways, Courted applause, and sought the Verdant Bays; One reach'd the Clouds in lofty Mantuan Verse, Another keen Iambick would rehearse: This Bard apply'd himself to Tragedy, That had a taking Vein in Comedy. Till Phaebus knowing all Poetick Wit To be defective, and imperfect yet. Sent down his Darling Dryden to relieve, The fainting Art▪ and make it ever live; Who by the God inspir'd divinely Writ, And made the never-fading Art Compleat. He found the Ore, and did refine it too, And having done what never Man could do, Assum'd a Swan-like from and o're the Clouds he flew. What if He did forsake the Mourning Land, And Mount the Skies by a Divine Command? There to compleat the Sacred Choir above, And Sing his Glorious Songs of Joy and Love.

Yet Dryden's shall stand secur'd of praise, And reach Fame's Empyrem in his Lays. City's may perish, Rocks may be defac'd, But his Renown shall never be debas'd. His Deathless Verses, shall Immortal be; Immortal as the Glorious God of Poetry.

I. Blyth. One of the Senior Scholars in Merchant Taylors School, Aged 15.

Vpon the Death of John Dryden, Esq A PINDARIQUE.

I.

THE Glorious Age had scarce begun, In happy rounds of Peace to run; When Thou our Joy and Light Forsook the VVorld, and left us wrapt in Night. VVith Sorrow we receiv'd The dismal News, but scarce believ'd; VVe thought so great a Man as Thee, Not subject to Mortality; Such wondrous Verses did thy Heav'n-born Muse, Such warbling Airs, such Harmony diffuse, That when thy charming Lines we read, It is preposterous to think Thee dead. But yet (as all things end, that er'e begun) Thy Muse is Silent now, thy Life is done, And Thou ar't o're the fatal River gone, To Death's inhospitable Shore; VVhere all thy Rivals went before, And Thou and Harmony are ours no more.

II.

VVas Nature weary of her Load, And could no longer stay? Or did some kind, some Guardian God, Translate thy Soul from her Abode, And waft Thee to the Realms of Light and Day? VVhich way soever 'twas, VVe must sustain the Loss: A Loss s' irreparably great, Not all the coming Ages can repair: Though we should storm Iove's awful Seat VVith the Artillery of Prayer. The kneeling VVorld might beg in vain, To hear the Musick of thy Voice again. So much thy Skill the Angels prize, They'le ever keep Thee in the Skies; To make the Anthems which they Sing In praise of Nature's God, and Heaven's Eternal King.

III.

Could I like Thee in lofty Numbers sing, Of Thee, the darling Son of Fame, Of Thee I'd make the Hills and Vallies ring. And wanton Eccho sport with Dryden's Name. Dryden, Dryden, all around Should the vocal Groves resound. And Winds be husht and still, to catch the carming Sound. Whilst neighbouring Streams that steal along In winding Currents o're the flow'ry Plains, Should stop their Waves, and list'ning to my Song, Rise up in silver Heaps to hear my happy Strains. But hearing me bewail thy Death, (Tho' in soft harmonious breath) They'd sadly sink away, And flowing backwards to their Urn, Through some dark subterraneous Cell, Where Silence, Night, and Chaos dwell: Remote from hated Light for ever stray, And there thy Loss in hollow Murmurs mourn.

IV.

Oh Father of our English Tongue! To Thee our Praises all belong: To Thee we should a Temple build, (A lasting Monument of Fame) That future Ages may just Homage yield, And pay a grateful Tribute to thy Name. Thou hast so much our Words refin'd, So happily increas'd the Store; That in thy Verse such Charms we find, As were unknown to all our Bards before. Thy artful Numbers, and inchanting Airs, (As Orpheus, when he touch'd the trembling Strings) Delude our Griefs, and cheat us of our Cares, When thy belov'd Thalia sings Of dying Lovers, or victorious Kings; Or when with Tragick rage, Fond Anthony adorns the Stage; Where for his Love, he gives the World away, So much he does our pity raise; We pay Thee Tears instead of Praise, And feel at once unusual Grief and Joy. Ah! then, how well may we at Death repine; That still'd so soft, so sweet a Voice as thine? How great a Cause have we, To mourn the Loss of POETRY, and Thee?

V.

But how should we express our Grief, How our deep Cares relate? How paint our Sorrows to the Life, While we lament his Fate? Folded Arms, and weeping Eyes, Flowing Tears, and rising Sighs, Are Actions all too low, To furnish out so sad a Scene of Wo••. Like Philomel we should Complain, And mourn great Dryden's Death, in Dryden's Strain: Or like the dying Swan, with tuneful Breath, Bewail his Loss, and sing our selves to Death.

But whither, whither wouldst Thou sly My feeble Muse? The Quarry's much too high. To some great Genius leave his praise, Which may survive to After-days: Let Congreve then in Deathless Song, His Father's Loss deplore; Congreve must his Fame prolong, In such soft rural Strains, as once he Sung before. Whilst generous Montague, both Great and Just, In some rich Urn preserves his Sacred Dust, And or'e his Grave a Mausolaeum rears, To be the Envy'd Wonder of succeeding Years.

Iohn Froud.

An ELEGY on the much Lamented Death of John Dryden, Esq the famous English Poet.

Tu Decus omne, tuis, Postquam te fata tulerunt, Ipsa Pales Agros, At{que} ipse relignit Apollo,

Virg.

THE careful Business of the day was done, And gloomy Darkness reign'd where Phaebus shone, When, with the Sun a Swain retir'd to rest, T' allay the Troubles of his anxious Breast, Scarce on the Couch his weary Limbs were spread, And on the Down reclin'd his pensive head, But the sad startling Tydings reach'd his Ear, Too doleful to be false, too true to hear. Long with himself the matchless Man he mourn'd— And slumbring to th' unwelcome Task return'd— He Curs'd the day that rowl'd the Message on, And the shrill Tongue that made the Message known; Then murmur'd at the changing Scenes below, Whilst from his Eyes salt Streams disclos'd his Woe. Sleep ••led his Eyes, and anxious Thoughts possess'd The restless Region of his throbbing breast.

A••••last his Passion half becalm'd and dead, In broken Words, and mournful Sighs, he said, Happy the glorious Days when thou didst sit, Unrivall'd in the sacred Throne of Wit, When of Parnassian Sons a num'rous Throng Stood listning at their charming Phabus's Song; ••••ke Iove sublime and great, like Venus soft and young. How sweetly would fair Albion's Cliffs rebound! And loth to lose the Voice, dilate the sound From Vale to Vale, and all the Forrest round; No rugged Notes from his blest Lips cou'd fall; Phaebus inspir'd, as Phaebus chose them all; Lofty his Verse, as the blest Seats above, Yet calm as are the Rea••ms of blissful of Love, Serene and smooth, as Ev'ning Rivers rowl, As Nectar sparkling in th' immorta•• Bowl; And Heav'nly magick Work's in ev'ry Line, And through the whole surprizing Fancies shine. (Oh were He deathless as his VVorks Divine!) As Iove his Forme so He could change his Muse, And now the Heroe, now the Drama, Chuse, His Heroe lofty as the Eagle flies, And like the Eagle comes from upper Skies. See? See! where most his happy Genious shines, Behold the Beauteous Verse and Deathl••ss Lines! How Sweetly does he Tune Great Maro's Lyre, And fills but never Satisfies desire! So Heavenly Joys, with Raptures please the Mind, And always leave a present Thirst behind. The Silvan Songs, how pleasant and how Sweet, Where Maro's Thoughts, and DRYDEN's Numbers meet▪ His Thoughts how bold, his Words how dazling brigh, When Arms and War provoke a Nobler slight! How Manly he the Grecian Muse bestrides, And through the Air on strongest Pinions rides, Oh, that He'd liv'd the finish'd VVork to view! But now 'tis left, harmonious Garth, for you; So Canaan's happy Plains were seen from far, But ne'er receiv'd the Sacred Tra••eller.

So younger Ioshua past the Adverse Sand, And brought lost Israel to the blissful Land. His Drama's just, and great, and as it ought, Without, or Want, or over-plus of Thought, Not like the Infant Muse in frothy Fit, That lavishes away its sterling Wit; And when both Flame and Heat the Subject wants, Has drain'd the Fountain's head in needless Rants; That, balks the longing Reader's strong desire, And this O••tends him with excess of Fire; But 'twixt the two, his Vessel safe appears, And in the Golden Medium wisely steers; If once his stabbing Pen the Poet drew, He spar'd the Wits, but all the Blockheads slew; So the far-shooting God is God of Sounds, And with a Nodd the wandring Rabble wounds. 'Twas he that made old crabbed Iuv'nal plain, And brought dark Persius to the Light again; So Phaebus banishes the gloomy Night From our black Coasts, on Wings of Morning Light. But who can all th' Immortal Beauties tell, That from his Heav'nly Muse divinely fell? 'Twou'd ask a Tongue Divine, as was his own To make his Worth, his Value truly known; Such was the Man, (the Man because retir'd) His Death by All deplor'd as was his Life desir'd; Unhappy Land! thy radiant Glory's gone, As Ev'ning Rays sink with the Setting-Sun; The Ghastly Truth is heard, and flies, and spreads, And as it flies infectious Sorrow sheds; All Albion's Sons with Sorrow delug'd round, Full of the News, lye prostrate on the Ground, And clad with Weeds, and melancholy vails, Each mourning Swain the God-like Bard bewails: His Mind was grown too pure, and Heav'nly bright, And must the Carcass leave, and take to Heav'n its flight. More he had spoke, but Phaebus rais'd his head From off his watry Couch, and thus he said, Long have I mourn'd my Son's unhappy Fate, But now am Summon'd on my Carr to wait;

Cease then to Weep till I have gain'd the Sky, Least Grief shou'd to the World my Beams deny; In Garth, or Congreve, shall his Genius shine, Then cease thy Tears, nor at harsh Fate repine: He said; the Promise cheer'd his drooping Breast; And Light, the present Deity confest.

R—Key.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

IS DRYDEN Dead? In whining Canto's Mourn, And Tears profusely shed upon his Urn, Ye servile Scriblers, who were late his Scorn, Whilst I rejoyce, so great a Man was Born. Not in the folly of an empty Mind, Rail at his Stars, or call the Fates unkind. Cause he devested of Mortallity, Has past Deaths narrow Po••ts t' Eternity. To grieve at's Death, were impiously to Mourn At's Life, and murmur that he e're was Born. Since Death is Life's Condition, and to Dye, As Nat'ral is as to be Born: Then why With Clam'rous Plants should I perplex the Skies, Disturb the Air with Groans, the Winds with Sighs, Or fouly fall upon the Destinies? The Gods that gave Him, might have kept him still, His Being was appendent on their Will. 'Twas in their Power alone, to make him be, Or to have kept him in Nonentity. And not t' have been's the same as not to be, One Power at Once, did Life and Death Decree, And that he is not; where's the Injury? Forth' Blessings of his Life, I thank the Gods, Nor envy's Bliss, in their Divine abodes, 'Tis true, he, whilst on Earth, most sweetly Sung, Soft melting Musick dwelt upon his Tongue, And the Indulgent Gods, they lent him long, His Life our Blessing was, his Death no wrong.

Tho' gone, yet he has left in part behind, The blest Ideas of his God-like Mind, A Portion of his Soul to Human kind. Dryden alone can spake, alone can shew, What we to his Informing Genius owe. Read but his Learned Works, and there you'l find, The Native Lustre of his Noble Mind. Judgment amidst his Works, and Fancy shine In every Page, and sparkle in each Line. His Numbers easy, soft and flowing are, His Arguments, than Virgin Streams more clear; Through whose Transparent Christalls you may Spye, The Radiant Genis, which at the bottom lye, His Words adorn his Wit, his Wit his Words, And each to'th other matchless Grave affords▪ His Characters are all so finely Drawn, That Nature seems by him to be out-done. The Prince and Hero, in his Works you'l see, Drawn to the full, not in Epitome▪ That mighty Minds, no Fate can ever bow, Great Montezuma's Sufferings will Shew. Where Majesty through thickest Clouds does shine, With Rays most bright, and Lustre most Divine. There Cortez, when a Captive you may see Great and Triumphant, as when Victo's free. I'th' person of Young Guyomar is shewn, A Gen'rous Lover, and a Pious Son. His various Ways could various Charms impart, His Fancy flow'd, but govern'd was by Art, His Numbers beautious, and his Beauties strong▪ His Periods just, and ••itted to his Song. But now the Glory of our Isle is gone, No Nation e're could boast so great a Son▪ The Muses all his Death deplore; (yet so, As Widows their Deceased Husbands do) Not wildly without hope, for this they know The Gods, that gave them One, can give them Two. Thus whilst for Dryden's Death they're prest with Grief, I'th' thoughts of Garth they feel a kind relief. Even so, let Albion mourn his Loss, and so To all the World her decent Sorrow shew:

But let no Man be vainly obstinate, Or too profuse in Grief, since the same Fate That gave us Him, can give us one as Great. A troubled Thought sometimes will force a Sigh, Sometimes a generous Tear will wet the Eye, Nature claims these, and these we can't deny, And may with Justice pay his Memory. But who, with studied Arts their Griefs improve, Shew more of Ostentation than of Love.

I. T.

Occasion'd by the Sight of Mr. Dryden's Picture at Sir Godfry Knellers, Drawn with the Bays in his Hand.

NAy, sure 'tis he! the living Colours move, And strike our Souls with Wonder and with Love, Has his soft Lyre dissolv'd Deaths fatal Chain, And given our Orphaeus to the World again? Such is thy Art, Great Kneller, as relieves His mourning Friends, and into Joy deceives. They who beneath the heaviest Sorrow bend; Who grieve not for the Poet, but the Friend: When they behold this Piece, their Tears restrain, And doubt a while, if they lament in vain. So those whom Fate destroys, thy Hand can save; And lengthen out a Life beyond the Grave. Oh! do thou place on Dryden's Learned Brow, The Sacred Bays, for none dare envy now. Thus He to future Ages shall be shown; Immortal in thy Works, as in his Own.

B. Buckeridge.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

GReat Dryden's Dead, and what bold daring Muse, Shall her last Office to his Grave refuse? In Tuneless Sounds, and inharmonious Words, (Such as my Infant Muse affords) Fain, very fain, wou'd I have told my dismal Tale, Backward I thought my Verse to Trail. 'Till Wak'd by awful Dryden's Name, I quit the Lethargy of Grief, and Write in Rhyme▪ Why is there such partiality in fate, T' allot deserving Men so small a Date? While Fools and Coxcombs longer Live, And as they grow in Folly so they Thrive. Oh! had his Life been lasting as his Fame, Ten Thousand Ages yet to come had seen, His sacred shrine. And Worship'd him, as now they Reverence his Name. But the Malitious hand of Envious Death, Has stop'd the Tuneful Poet's Breath▪ Nor can Apollo's self the loss retrieve, With Grief his Med'cines, and his Youth he sees, And hates their useless Properties. Since neither those cou'd the dead Bard revive, Nor these add Ages to him yet alive. All Powerful Poet, cou'd I sing like thee: I'd smile at vain Amphion's empty Name, Mine, only mine shou'd stretch the Cheeks of Fame: While I wou'd raise a costlier Thebes than he, Rebuild Thee from the Grave, and give Thee Immortality▪ But Oh! my creeping Numbers cannot flow. Spite of thy Name, they're stop'd by rising woe; Yet take this humble tribute of my Verse, For what I want in Praise, my Tears shall pay Thy Herse.

Anonymus.

On the Great Preparations made for the Funeral of John Dryden, Esq

TO Living Wits, all Nations else are kind, And make their Fortunes equal to their Mind. As they arise in slighted Merits cause, And raise the drooping Laurels with Applause; So the fam'd Town that o'er rough Adria rides And Laughs at the weak insults of it's Tides. Return'd a Youthful Author's Tuneful Lays, And gave the Bard a Pension for his Praise. His Country's Fame, in recompence He Sung, And Venice is immortal from his Tongue.

But wiser we, who all such Precepts scorn, And act without the Prospect of return, That Starve the Poet, and Caress His Urn. To a Dead Author wonderfully kind, But rank the Living with the Lame and Blind; Like David (while His Infant liv'd) we Weep, Sack Cloth put on, and solemn Fasts we keep. But when the Joyful News arrives, He's Dead, We Feast the Body, and adorn the Head. With Songs and Dances, follow to the Grave, Whom just before we Branded for a Slave.

So Rome the great Ventidius once decry'd, The Living Object of Her hate and Pride. But Fate no sooner o'er His Breath prevail'd, When ROMANS Buried Him, at whom They rail'd. Owning the Deathless Fame His Arms Atcheiv'd, VVhich ne're had been Acknowledg'd, had He Liv'd.

P. C.

Vpon the Hearing of the Death of John Dryden, Esq

DEATH, thou hast struck, but 'tis in vain to try, To Render Mortal, Immortality. 'Tis true, Thy Dart, this fatal harm has done, The Fabrick built of Flesh and Blood is gone. The Man appears no more unto our Sight, We yield him gone into eternal Night. But his Great Genius Lives, and ever will, Till thou hast left not one Dart more to Kill. Wit's mighty'st Hero, thus o'recomes thy spight, Ages to come, shall read him with Delight.

N. Collins.

To Dr. Samuel Garth, occasioned by the much La∣mented Death of John Dryden, Esq

THough Pens like Your's, and Tongues alone should dare, To make Departed worth the Muse's Care, And in Defence of injur'd Virtue rise, And bear Consummate Learning to the Skies: Yet, since our Loss is greatest, We may plead, A right to Mourn what you can never need, As Children we Lament a Parents fall, And for His Precepts, and his Counsels call: As Brethren such as You bewail His Fate, Bequeath'd for Guardians of our Infant State. To parcel out the Bounties of the Dead, And Comment on the Lectures He has Read.

Permit us then, our Dutious Zeal to prove, And make a Tender of our Tears and Love, As we with Sighs unfeign'd the Task pursue, And Weep him Dead, who still must Live in You.

And who shall make us known, and stamp Esteem, On what we Write, since He's the Writer's Theme, Though 'midst our Verse no Fav'rite Congreve shines, Nor Urwin sends Auxilliary Lines. Though Title Page no swelling Kitcat Grace, And Playford's Name, takes Iacob Tonson's place.

And since Britannia's Noblest Sons have paid, Their Sorrows to this Venerable Shade And with Solemnity of Grief have shown, They durst ev'n abdicated Merit own. Though Murm'ring Friends to Malice ever just, Revil'd the Triumphs of His Honour'd Dust. As through the Streets, the Moving Spoils of Fate, Mix'd Pomp with Sorrow, and despair with State.

Since the Dead Bard His Living Honours owes, Next to His Verse, to Your immortal Prose. And in Wit's Throne by W••••••'s assistance Reigns, And shine's a Virgil in a Tully's strains: Since Gen'rous Montag••e a Tomb designs, For Him He Stab'd, when Living with His Lines, And unconfin'd in Bountious Actions show's, How He can keep his Friends, and gain His Foes, As He, by coming Ages to be read, Preserves the Living, and Protects the Dead: Isis, and Cham, and Thame would be ingrate, If unconcern'd at such a Moving Fate. Which gives Employment to the Noblest Tears, And speak's a Gen'ral loss in Gen'ral Fears.

And, lo! in one United stream they flow, Joyning to form a Sea of Blackest Woe! Cham bred him up, and fitted Him for Fame, Her self immortal in His Deathless Name, And Thame receiv'd and fann'd the growing Flame. Array'd His Browns with Laurel'd Wreaths, which spread, Diffusive Beams of Sence around his Head; And Brittish Bards with one consenting Voice, Admir'd Their Monarch, and his Master's choice.

But, how He from His Throne Imperial fel••▪ Wisdom forbids the Trembling Muse to tell. Superior Pow'rs thought his Removal sit, And all Superior Pow'rs can Judg of Wit.

But Isis, to her Sorrow cannot claim, The least Alliance to so great a Name. Nor has she Taught, His Infant Genius Lays, Nor Crown'd His Temples with Eternal Bays, Yet has She been the subject of His Praise. And He must be the Theme, which must infuse Brightness, and strength, and Fancy to Her Muse. As, in return to Her Exalted Fame, She Sings, and Dwells upon it's Author's Name. And made immortal in His Works, has shown, She can from Him immortalize Her own.

Three Languages His Various Skill confess, And own to Him their Decency of Dress: Each made endebted to His Artful Song, The Greek, the Latin, and the Brittish Tongue. And only Three Lament His mournful Fall, Whose dying Glories should be wept in All. The first with Clouds of English Rhimes o're spread, Shew'd Homer's fury Spiritless and Dead. VVhile through the Gath'ring Fogs no Beams could Dart, To make the Reader see the VVriter's Art. VVhen He call'd forth His Numbers, in Defence Of slaughter'd Fancy, and of martyr'd Sence, Telling the Secrets of his Author's mind, And Homer's Readers are no longer blind, But lost in Light we grasp the shining Prize, Though dark before as were its Author's Eyes. Oh! had those Powers that took him hence bestow'd A longer Time on Earth for His abode; That the whole Bard might have adorn'd our Clime, Rescu'd in ev'ry part from Fate and Time. But I, in vain, a fruitless wish pursue, We have no Hope unless that Hope's in You: Or Yours most lengthen His contracted Strains, Or all the Bard can never quit his Chains.

The Second (and what Muse can speak the Wrong, Done to the Beauties of the Latian Song) Perverted by base Hands, had lost its Charms, And Brittish Words had conquer'd Roman Arms. The Goths and Vandals seem'd again to Reign, And strike a Terror through th' Italian Plain, As we no more could find in either's Page, An Ovid's softness, or a Virgil's Rage: Till He, Rome's other Pow'rful Genius, rose, And Triumph'd o'er the conquests of Her Foes. Giving the first His Nativeness of Thought, And to the last His Fire without a Fault.

But if the Greek, and if the Latin share The Bounties of his Favours, and his Care, If Foreign Tongues have His assistance known, What Thanks are owing to Him from his own? Brittain must rise (or Brittain is unjust, And as she wrong'd Him Living, wrong's His Dust) To Vindicate His long Experienc'd Aid, And own a Debt which she but Oddly paid; When from His Brows, the spreading Bays were torn, And for His Labours, she return'd her Scorn. Rugged, and rough, the Bard her Langua'ge found, Without a Meaning, or a proper sound. As Saxon Syllabs Choak'd the Roads of Sence, And Foreign Words were all Her Tongues Defence. But Dryden's Diligence, and Dryden's Thought, Chas'd back the Troops, which false Invaders brought. New stamp'd the Language with another Face, And gave it Maj••sty as well as Grace. It's Periods happy, and its Cadence true, It's ••lights surprizing, and expressions New. Perspicuous in it's meaning as the Light, And grateful to the Ear, and to the Sight.

Waller, at first, as Moses led the way, And shew'd our Dark'ned Land a distant Day. Dispell'd some Clouds which Gather'd round it's Head, And made the Gloom of Night much thinner spread,

But Nature's Debt He pay'd, and scarce had spy'd, The Darkness to decrease, but slep't and dy'd. When Dryden, like a second Ioshua came, His Fortune greater, though his Task the same. And led us to the Beautious Realms of Light, Possess••ng what the other had in Sight, Bringing the North much nearer to the Sun, And perfecting what Waller had begun.

Yet though his Works are all sublimely Great, And dare the Teeth of Time, and Rage of Fate; Though Absolon's Rebellion ever shines, And Fleckno's dullness Sparkles in his Lines. Though Mourning ANTHONY still makes us Weep, And brave VENTIDIUS Manly Sorrows keep. Though, All H' has done dares Envy's Nicest Test, And His worst Poem's better than our Best. His latest Work, though in His last decays, As far exceeds His former as Our Praise. And Chaucer shall again with Joy be Read, Whose Language with its Master lay for Dead, 'Till Dryden, striving His Remains to save, Sunk in His Tomb, who brought him from his Grave.

FINIS.