The Nine muses, or, Poems written by nine several ladies upon the death of the late famous John Dryden, Esq.

Melpomene: The Tragick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. M—

COME all my Sisters now in Consort join, Each weep her Favrite's loss with Tears Divine: Fill all the Space with your immortal Sighs, The vaulted Heavens return your louder Cries. Ye Loves and Graces-hang your Heads, and weep, And every God a decent Silence keep; That I may Grieve my fill, for Dryden's gone, Well may I now the mourning Vail put on: Well may I now with Cypress load my Brow, For who like him can e'er invoke me now? Who sang fair Killigrew's untimely fall, And more than Roman made her Funeral. Inspir'd by Me, for me, he cou'd Command, Bright Abington's rich Monument shall stand For evermore, the Wonder of the Land. Oldham he snatch'd from an ignoble Fate, Chang'd his cross Star for a more fortunate. For who wou'd not with Pride resign his Breath, To be so Lov'd, to be so Blest in Death. Cromwel's great Genius here was greater shewn, Well might such Vertues for one Vice attone; If vast Ambition can be reckon'd Vice, Which to great Jove gave the Imperial Skies. The Monarch CHARLES he has Divinely Sung, Well I remember, when my Graces hung On each inchanting Accent of his Tongue.

Then a whole Hecatomb of Vows he made, And I, the Offering, gratefully repaid; For this alone he has deserv'd the Prize, As Ranelagh, for her Victorious Eyes, When on the Tragick Theme my Hero wrote, I lent him all my Fire, and every Thought; How Artfully he does the Passions move, How at his Voice we Languish▪ Weep; or Love▪ Ev'n I, a Maid, of so untouch'd a Fame, At Cleopatra's Grief must pitty more than blame. St. Catherine's Martyrdom has greater Charms, Than the lewd Prince, imagin'd from her Arms. Whilst Dorax and Sebastian both contend▪ To shew the generous Enemy and Friend▪ O, I should never cease, should I repeat Each lesser part, of that which forms the great. Fixt, like the Sun, Superiour and alone, His Glories o're inferiour Beings shone. Pale twinkling Stars all other Writers seem, Nor warms, nor lights, tho' they'r in Numbers seen. In him alone all Attributes were found, And he the Universal God renown'd, Unfollow'd drove, through all his own Immortal round.

Melpomene.

Urania: The Divine Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By the Honourable the Lady P—

WHEN through the Universe with Horrour spread, A sacred Voice pronounc'd Great PAN was dead, All Nature trembled at the direful Fate, And Atlas sunk beneatl his pond'rous weight; The mournful Muses h••ng their heads with woe, While ev'ry Deity regrets the Blow, And to the holy Oracles, deny All farther Inspects of futurity; The Earth did under strong Convulsions groan, And Heaven did eccho back the dreadful moan:

With no less grief, with no less pain opprest, Britania felt the wound within her Breast, When through the murmuring Croud sad Accents bore The fatal News, that Dryden was no more: No more, to charm the list'ning World with Lays, But fled to sing his great Creator's praise▪ No more with artful Numbers, to bestow An universal Influence below: No more with all discerning Truth, to tell How they shou'd act, and how distinguish well, But Summon'd by Apollo's sacred Lyre, Now chaunts his Raptures in the Heav'nly Choir.

Loud were the Clamours, and the moving Cries, Which cut the yielding Air, and pierc'd the Skies; While on Parnassus, 'twas the Muses care Fresh Garlands for their Darling to prepare;

I search'd the Treasures of the Pow'rs above, And form'd an Anthem on Seraphick Love: New Themes we chose, not more polite than he Has left already to Posterity; But those for which the Island does repine, For which they still invoke his awful Shrine, And with transported Sorrow loudly cry, Virgil, the Roman Eagles taught to fly, But Dryden mounts their Pinions to the Sky! To him proud Greece and Italy must bow, And his sublime Authority allow, Who by his never dying Works, weisee Merits, and gives an Immortality Oh give us Homer yet, thou glorious Bard; But if this last Petition can't be heard, Yet like that Prophet, wing'd by strong desire, Who broke from Earth, wrapt in Celestial fire, Confer thy Spirit on the blooming Son, And bless the Progress he so well begun; Let Garth inherit all thy generous Flame, Garth, who alone can justify the Claim. He, whom the God of Wisdom did fore-doom, And stock with Eloquence to pay thy Tomb, The most triumphant Rites of ancient Rome.

'Tis this that fills Urania's Eyes with Tears. 'Tis this ungrateful Sound that racks my Ears, Who now to thee, Melpomene, repair, To mix my Sorrows with thy anxious care; Unite us all within thy gloomy Breast, Where downy Peace, and Pleasure find no rest; There let us drink the Floods thou shed'st, and then A deluge of Despair pour out again. What if our Tears shou'd drown the World a new, The Sacrifice were to his Manes due. Who now of Heroes, or of Gods can sing! Who their Credentials from Apollo bring!

Where shall Urania now bestow her aid! Or who great Dryden's Province dare invade! Ah none such lofty Subjects can pursue; The Muses have, alas! no more to do, Than sing his Elogies, and so expire, In the cold Urn of his extinguish'd Fire.

But stay, a sudden Thought does now revive My drooping heart, and keep my hopes alive; Behold in Albion lately did appear A learned Bard, to Esculapius dear, Well knowing in the Secrets of his Skill, And surely foster'd on Parnassus's Hill, Nor does the Chrystal Helicon bestow A clearer Stream, than from his Numbers flow: On him already all the Graces smile, In him survive new Trophies for the Isle; More I'le not urge, but know our Wishes can No higher Soar, since Garth's the Glorious Man; Him let us Constitute in Dryden's stead, Let Laurels ever flourish on his head, And let us to Apollo make our Pray'r To Nominate him his Vice-regent, there; By this Britannia shall her Joys retreive, Nor find that Dryden's dead, while Garth does live.

Erato: The Amorous Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. S. F.

IN the wish'd close of Evening's welcome gloom, My longing Steps reach'd an inviting bloom; Whose untrod paths the sad'ning Cypress grac'd, And in small Plats were softer Myrtles plac'd; The lofty Cedars with extended Arms, Twine to keep off the force of Roughest Storms,

And num'rous Towring Arbourets they made, The Solemn Glory of the pleasing shade. On Verdant Moss Natures rich Cloth of State, By a clear Thrilling stream supine I late. Upon my Hand, my thoughtful Head Reclin'd, Sad, soft Ideas entertain'd my Mind, And I to Sing some Lovers fate inclin'd. But strait Erato whom I did invoke, Forbid my choice her Speech abruptly broke, At last in Sighs the interdiction spoke. Ye shall no more Write tender moving strains, To please the Nymphs and melt the wishing Swains, But to the World my Sorrows you shall tell, How I have griev'd since the lost Hero fell, My Darling Dryden whom I loy'd so well▪ He who has done such Glorys to my Name, Immortal as my self has made my Fame. Watchful as Lovers I first saw his Fate, With rageing Sounds Parnassus's loss relate. Call'd all my Sisters with my Frantick Crys, And every God to join in th' Obsequies, With Tears made Helcyon Brackish as the Seas. Like a deserted Maid in Wild despair, I tore my Myrtle Wreath and flowing Hair, My Mantle rent and shatter'd in the Air. And in loose Cipress Vail'd my useless Charms, Sigh'd till I turn'd our Aether into Storms. No more I'le wanton on our mountains Brow, Nor curious pains upon my Locks bestow. In amorous folds my azure Mantle twine, And sooth soft languishments in Airs divine; But careless throw me in some dusky Shade, Which Willows, Cypress, Yew has awful made; There to my Votress, Eccho, I'le complain, Whose Complaisance reverberates again, My piercing Groans through every Wood and Plain. Thus I and She in an Eternal round, Will my Celestial Griefs for Dryden's Death resound.

Dryden, who with such ardour did invoke, That I through him my greatest Raptures spoke, Whisper'd at thousand tender melting things, Till he writ Lays moving as Orpheu's Strings. Oft I for Ink did radiant Nectar bring. And gave him Quills from Infant Cupid's Wing, Whose tender force did as Victorious prove, As if they'd been the Immortal Shafts of Love; Warm'd every Breast with a surprizing Fire, And in the Nicest softest Thoughts inspire: Such lustre still grac'd his Magnetick Line, It was both irresistless and Divine. With what Celestial cadence doth he tell, The pristine Joys of Love e're Mankind fell: When in the blooming Grove the first kind pair, With amorous Sighs fan'd the Ambrosial Air; Smiling on flowry Banks supinely laid, The ardent Youth prest the unblushing Maid, In his soft Lines such Extasies they boast, To hear their Loves, Rivals the Bliss they lost. When Cleopatra's passion he adorns, How nobly Anthony the Empire scorns, Dissolv'd in her kind Arms transported lay, For Love's soft Joys gave the rough Crown away. Such Realms of Bliss the Hero still possest, Sighing fond Vows on her returning Breast; Who reads their Languishments their Passions feel, Intranc'd in Joy too exquisite to tell. When an incestuous Flame his Theme has bin, He almost charms us to forgive the Sin. My favourite Ovid's strains, I did improve, And taught my Dryden tenderer Arts of Love. Such Arts had our addressing Phaebus known, Daphne, tho' coy, had not unconquer'd flown, But brought the Hero forth, and not their Crown. He so advanc'd what ever I bestow'd; I was Love's Muse, but he himself the God.

Euterpe: The Lyrick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq An O. D. E.

By Mrs. J. H.

I.

I Soft Euterpe, sweetest of the Nine, The most Inspiring, and the most Divine, By my own Lyre rais▪d to extatick Joy Full of kind Influence expecting sate▪ When tuneful Dryden would my Aid implore, Who with gay Transports did my Gifts employ, And meanest Thoughts above my Notes did soar. But strait a dismal, and unwelcome Sound, Fill'd all th' Aetherial Courts around, Great Dryden is no more. But like the common things in mortal State, Lost in th' impartial Gulf of an inevitable Fate. At the dread News grief all my Lustre veil'd, I broke my harmonious Harp and Lute, Threw by my softning ever-charming Flute, Not the least glympse of Joy appears, No radiant Nymphs about my Pallace wait, Nor drink I any Nectar but my Tears.

II.

I with profoundest Cause, and Sorrow mourn, Over my Dryden's sacred Urn: He was my greatest Glory, only boast, Through him I let ungrateful Mankind know, What mighty Wonders I could do, But now, like him, to the inferior World I'm lost. I taught Him all the softer Airs of Love, And Anthems so divine; he'll find the same above.

With an auspicious Pride I did dispence My mighty Favours, when He did implore, From my pregnant unexhausted Store, Of tuneful Fancies, and harmonious Sence. When I with gentle Fire have warm'd the Breast, The Soul with pleasing Raptures bles't, The sacred Flame in ev'ry part does shine, The Product, like the Source, is all divine, And an immortal Lustre graces ev'ry Line. Poetry's not th' effect of Art, or Wine, or Love, Tho' They sometimes the Gift improve, Nor is the warmth that Poets does inspire, Vinum Daemonum, but Celestial Fire. A God-like Ray enlightning from above; As decent Measures, reg'lar Motions be Through all the tuneful Universe, And speak in all a glorious Harmony, Ev'n so the mystick Numbers of melodious Verse, Are of th' intellectual World the sacred Symmetry.

III.

Dryden I chose of all the tuneful Throng, His Soul with ardour fill'd fit for immortal Song; Learn'd him all Lyrick Arts of Poetry, Such as might with Celestial Notes agree; Which his Industry did approve, In Celebrations, Elegies and Love, And ev'ry Theme which his commanding Pen would try With strength of Judgment, and profoundest sence, With sparkling Wit, gay Fancy, Eloquence, His Verse did all abound: In him alone was found The much desir'd, aim'd at Excellence. In ev'ry Line magnificent or sweet, Like OVID soft, or else like VIRGIL great. Orpheus's magnetick Harp less pow'r cou'd boast, All Rage, unless in Love when e'er he sung was lost. Above 'em all he rais'd his matchless Lays, Glory of Britain, and Wits Empire too,

Which tho' the Subjects are but Few, Did justly wreath him with deserved Bays: The verdant Diadem which Laureat Crown, Ne're look'd so fresh as when he put it on, Then like his Lines with Godlike-lustre shone.

IV.

With a Superior and victorious Grace The Sacred Place, He did almost unenvy'd assume, I, pleas'd to see the Branches spread O're his triumphant Head, From th' Helicon Spring Did Water bring, Sprinkled them oft that they might ever bloom. But, oh! they cou'd not stand the Rage, Of an ill-natur'd and Lethargick Age, Who spight of Wit wou'd stupidly be Wise, All noble Raptures, Extasies despise, And only Plodders after Sence will Prize. They from his meritorious Brow The Laurel tear▪ Which none but he could justly wear, And He must suffer Abdication too.

V.

With Him they did suppress all lofty flights of Poetry. All melting Airs, and rapt'ring Harmony, But this Revenge, let Mankind take from me. If any dare on Dryden's Death to Write, Not to express their Grief, but shew their Wit, I the Ambitious purpose will Reverse, Deny my Aid, And so shall each inspiring Maid. Resolving ungrateful Man who could contemn Such Noble excellence in Him. Shall never more the blessing know, We'll ne'r again our influence bestow. Tho' 'tis pretended to adorn His Herse.

(Unless the generous Montague implore, Then in him shall all our Glories shine as heretofore.) But to express our own immortal Love, We'll Solemnize His Obsequies above, Our grief such Emphasis shall bear, As no Corporeal Organs can declare, And one Eternal Sigh spread thro' the Extending Air.

Thalia: The Comick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq A PASTORAL.

By Mrs. M—

Alexis, Daphne, Aminta, Thalia.

Alex.

IF falling Tears and Sighs too deep for Art, Can paint the sufferings of a Bleeding Heart. If all your looks so much of sorrow wears, That they can speak, unaided by your Tears, Why since my absence, are thy beauties lost, What Cruel Grief, has thus thy Charms ingrost. Say Daphne, tell Alexis why you Mourn, Why this dejected Mien, why thus forlorn, Is there a Swain you love without return.

Daph.

That Staff and Scrip, speak your arrival new, But you'l not long, be unconcern'd as now. Why do I seem as chose by angry fate, To give you Grief, whilst I my own relate. For sure the Cause is common of our woe, Judge what you'l feel, by what I undergoe, Since ev'n your lov'd return can bring no Joy, That Rival Grief, does ev'ry Beam destroy. Our Bard is lost, our great Apollo's Dead, Immortal Dryden's to th' Immortal fled. Here let me Veil my grief, I can no more, Until some Aiding God, my Powers restore.

Am.

See poor Alexis turns aside to Mourn, The first assaults of grief, are hardest born. Nor asks he how his Flocks, and Pastures fare, Sing, Daphne Sing, to ease the Shepherd's Care. For sweetness to thy Voice, and strains belong, Sing to his Praise, of Dryden be thy Song.

Daph.

Cou'd I like Waller Praise, his Praise wou'd be A Theam fit for my Muse, my Muse for thee. Cou'd I like Waller mourn, with unbound Hair, And Flowing Tears, the Daughter of Despair. Each Towring Hill, and every humble Plain, Shou'd Echo to my Voice, in such a strain, As thro' the Ear should wound the listning Swaih, Then his unequal'd worth, I'de boldly Name, And whilst I gave receive a Deathless Fame; For cou'd she e're a juster Wreath dispence, Than for excelling in such Excellence?

Alex.

Cease Daphne, cease, no Musick's in thy Song, Our Griefs so moving, and the Sence so strong, As not to be express'd by Mortal tongue.

Daph.

I know my humble Muse, untaught by Art Must only hope to touch some easy heart: But if Sincerity be more approv'd Than Eloquence, by Interest mov'd, I best can know to mourn, who best have lov'd. Cou'd but the Earth be Summon'd at my Call, High from his Funeral Pile, I'de speak to all With gushing Tears, torn Robes, and stretcht out Arms, Invoke Melpomene with all her doleful Charms, And thus bespeak the wondring World with Cries, Deep Groans, and intermissionary Sighs.

Tha.

See, Daphne, see, Thalia now appears, Call'd by thy powerful Voice, her Heav'n forbears. For passions oft to Swains in Shades have shewn, That but in Name, ours differ from their Own.

My Dryden's loss, our self with Swains will Sing, And Flowers and Garlands to his Triumphs bring▪ My Blissful Soul, that Loves with Joy to swell, Wou'd Mourn indeed, but not on Sorrow dwell▪ For this I left my deathless Sister's cries, To sing with mortal Nimphs his Obsequies. That once perform'd, our self we will return, The gay Thalia can no longer mourn: Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the rising Sun; These ever greens true Emblems of his Soul, Take Daphne these, and scatter thro' the whole, Whilst the Eternal Dryden's Worth I tell, My lovely Bard that so lamented fell. Such true delight his Comick Muse adorn, Here you are shewn the Vices you shou'd scorn. Poor ridicul'd Melantha bears her part, Her native Beauty's spoil'd by foreign Art. Gomez, the old, past any use of Life▪ To all his less Diseases adds a Wife, Who does not then Elvira's Youth excuse, When gay Lorenzo offers the Abuse▪ But most I laugh, when Dominich is shewn Such Hipocrites, Religion shou'd disown. Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the rising Sun; These ever greens true Emblems of his Soul, Take Daphne these, and scatter thro' the whole; Whilst the Eternal Dryden's Worth I tell, My lovely Bard, that so lamented fell. Shepherds, the Sun declines, or I cou'd shew O're all his well-drest Scenes how Nature flows, What Strength, what Wit, what Learning in each part, Here to the Soul he speaks, there to the Heart: Tho' you attend with an unwearied Ear, Your Flocks and Herds seem to require your care; Here let us now our last sad Tears combine, Here let us all in solemn Mourning join.

Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the Rising Sun; These ever greens true Emblems of his Soul▪ Take Daphne these, and scatter thro' the whole, Whilst the Immortal Dryden's Worth I tell, My lovely Bard, that so lamented fell.

Clio: The Historick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. M. P.

IMmortal Clio thou my Breast inspire, And set my Numbers to thy tuneful Lyre, Whilst I a Requiem sing to Dryden's Name, The fore-most Bard, and Eldest Son of Fame. Ye tender Loves, in mumuring Sighs deplore, Him, whose soft strain adorn'd the British Shore. Whose Charming Verse was Sung thro all the Plains, Mov'd the Coy Nimphs, and fir'd the Amorous Swains. From Fields, from Silver Streams, and Grotto's come, Bring all their Flowers to Deck your Master's Tomb. Enrich his Hearse, with Balm of Eloquence, Sweet as his Numbers, Lofty as his Sence. Say how you flag'd your Wings in that dark Day, That snatch'd from Mortal 〈◊〉〈◊〉, your Fa•• away, Say this and more, too much you cannot say. Weep all with melting Strains in Comfort join, In Solemn Woe, t' assist the Mourning Nine. But when ye 'ave paid or Grief the mighty Score, When pitying Gods man did you Weep no more. Sing their Immortal praise, from Pole to Pole, That gave our Maro so Divine a 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Whose Verses shin'd like 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and as 〈◊〉〈◊〉, As Milton Soar'd, or any Muse can fly, Of Love, of War, when e're his 〈…〉〈…〉 All listen'd to the Musick of his Song, And useless Flutes, upon the Willows hung.

But who on Earth can Boast of true Repose, Pale Envy from her Snaky Bed arose, In thousand Shapes his Merit to oppose. As when conspiring Nations vainly join'd, 'Gainst some Hero's mighty Strength, and mightier mind. Like Hercules the more his Glory grows, And still survives the malice of his Foes; New Labours add to his triumphant Bays, And every Victim sounds his deathless Praise: Thus Vertue higher flies oppress'd with pains, And Valour brightest shines in dusty Plains.

Stop here, my Muse, no more thy Office boast, This drop of Praise is in an Ocean lost; His Works alone are Trumpets of his Fame, And every Line will Chronicle his Name.

Calliope: The Heroick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. C. T.

CEase all my tuneful Sisters, now restrain Your sacred Fire, you lavish it in vain, At least no grateful Vows I e're shall hear again. Dryden's no more! Who with such Ardour pray'd, And such rich Incense at our Altars paid. He charm'd us to his Will, each strove which best Our Votary cou'd inspire, he all address'd, And was by all with Emulation blest. Who now such Offerings for our Gifts can bring; Now sad Melpomene alone may sing, Or we by her inspr'd, each break her Lyre, And all be ever stil'd, The mournful Quire.

Yet you, my happier Sisters, still enflame Some favourite Bard, who well invokes your Name; Vanbrugh, the Comick Muse has Grac'd with Praise; Granvill, whose well wrought Scenes the Passions raise, In Tragick Strains shall long adorn the Stage; And Garth, in pointed Satyr, lash the Age. Each equal to his Theme, my loftier flight Not daring yet t'attempt. Bl—re in spight Of me, and Nature, still presumes to write; Heavy, and doz'd, crawls out the tedious length, Unfit to soar, drags on with Peasant strength The weight he cannot raise; be his alone The Glory of a Work which I disown; Heroick Dulness eternize his Fame, Maevius forgot, Proverbial be his Name; Scarce was I more enrag'd against the Three Assassins, Chapman, Hobbs and Ogilby; The last my Virgil had defac'd in vain, To all his Charms, by Dryden, rais'd again; But still my mangled Homer's Wounds remain.

With Envy he beheld fresh Lawrels spread, On the Triumphing Mantuan's sacred head; Who with Majestick mein (his Crown retreiv'd) The Britain's Homage awfully receiv'd.

I take, he said, these Honours as my own, Grac'd justly with the Prize which Dryden won; Let this, my Son, my grateful Tribute be, That I am proud of Praise, I owe to thee. That I confess thou mak'st my Genius shine, In my own Numbers Drest, not more Divine. Thus lively were the Images I drew, Thus Romans saw Old Troy in Flames a new, Thus interrested in Aeneas Fate, Share all the joys, or hardships, I relate: Thus join my Battels, feel the Wounds I paint, Thus fought my Heroe, and thus Went my Saint. Belov'd and pitty'd thus, Brave Turnus fell; Both Vanquish'd by our selves, we drew so well,

The lovely Youth, all grieve his Fate to see, And less applaud our Hero's Victory.

With Virgil, Chaucer sings Great Dryden's Name, Who gave new luster to his darkned Fame; Dispel'd the Clouds by which he was conceal'd, And to his native Isle the Bard reveal'd; Not blest enough in his own glorious State, Till he to them a part Communicate. Of all great Actions by his bounteous Flame, Th' inciter and Reward: Now you who aim With fading Pow'r, at bright immortal Fame. Ambitious Monarchs, all whom Glory warms, Cease your vain toil, throw down your conquering Arms, Your active Souls confine, since you must dye Like vulgar Men, your Names and Actions lye Where Trojan Heroes, had not Homer liv'd, Had lain forgot, nor ruin'd Troy surviv'd; No more their Glories I can e're retrieve, For Nature can no second Dryden give.

Terpsichore: A Lyrick Muse.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. L. D. ex tempore.

JUST as the Gods were listening to my Strains, And thousand Loves danc't o're the Aethereal Plains. (With my own radiant Hair my Harp I strung, And in glad Consort all my Sisters sung, An universal Harmony above, Inspir'd us all with Gaiety and Love.) A horrid Sound dasht our immortal Mirth, Wafted by Sighs from the unlucky Earth. Who'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Celestial Forms should Sorrows know, Or simpathize with sad Events below; But by our great Immortal Selves we do:

For when the loud unwelcome Message spread, With dismal Accents tuneful Dryden's Dead, All our gay Joys in hast affrighted fled. A sullen Gloom seiz'd all the Gods around, My feeble hand no more the Lyre cou'd sound; And all the soft young Loves, with drooping Wings Lisp't their concern, and my neglected Strings Trembl'd themselves into a mournful Air, Then sight and husht into a sad despair; There let them ever unregardedly Apollo's too, doth cease its Harmony. He with as sacred Nimphs profusely mourns, With us the least desire of Respite scorns Intire eternal Grief; our Beings seize For him who best could us and Mankind▪ please. Great Dryden, in whose yast capacious Mind▪ Our utmost pow'r did fit reception find; Which Favours he did generously dispence▪ Joy'd the glad World with his amazing Sence, And like us too diffus'd his Influence; His Genius would such Inspiration bear, That his Illustrious Lines did not appear As if our Product, but our Selves were there. Mourn ye forsaken Worlds, you ne're again▪ Be blest with so Divine, so great a Swain. In you no more let tuneful Mirth be found, The very Spheres shall cease wonted Sound, And every Orb stop its harmonious round: All Nature hush as if intranc't she lay, Sunk in old Chao•• e're the inlight'ning Ray Of Heaven awak'd her in the first-born Day. With such still Horrour, lets our Sorrows bear, Least Sighs in time Harmonious should appear, If e're to Write again, is Man's intent, Uncall'd on let us silently Lament And take his Works for an Eternal President.

Polimnia: Of Rhetorick.

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq

By Mrs. D. E.

CAll'd by my Grief, Melpomene I come, With Radiant Tears, to Grace my Dryden's Tome▪ Me my imperial Father Jove has made▪ Of powerful Rhetorick, the Glorio•••• Maid. But since my Heav'nly Birth did ne're inspire, Nor Found a Soul Capacious of such Fire. Pleas'd with the mortal Wonder, I look'd down, And on his Brows fixt an Immortal Crown. With Lovers hands, I la visht all my Charms, Gave up my self, to his more Lovely Arms▪ Which his unequal'd Works so loudly Sound▪ Where Energy, and Rhetorick abound, And every Grace that's in Minerva found▪ Ah Mournful Sister, thou my Grief must share, A loss so vast, no single Breast can bear. Wreath me in my Dark Robes, I'le watch thy Eyes, Mingle our Tears and Eccho to thy Sighs, Of Eloquence no more, the use I'le Boast▪ That all Arts, are in my Lover Lost. Incessant Groans, be all my Rhetorick now, My Immortality, I wou'd forgoe, Rather than drag this Chain of endless Woe. O mighty Father, hear a Daughter's Pray'r, Cure me by Death, from deathless sad Dispair.

FINIS.