John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  But ah! too short, Marcellus of our Tongue!

  Thy Brows with Ivy and with Laurels bound;

  But Fate and gloomy Night encompass thee around. 25

  To the Pious Memory of the Accomplisht Young Lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the two Sister-arts of Poesie and Painting.

  An Ode

  1

  THOU youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies,

  Made in the last Promotion of the Blest;

  Whose Palms, new pluckt from Paradise,

  In spreading Branches more sublimely rise,

  Rich with Immortal Green above the rest: 5

  Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star,

  Thou rol’st above us in thy wand’ring Race,

  Or, in Procession fixt and regular,

  Mov’d with the Heavens Majestick pace;

  Or, call’d to more Superiour Bliss, 10

  Thou tread’st, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss:

  Whatever happy region is thy place,

  Cease thy Celestial Song a little space;

  (Thou wilt have time enough for Hymns Divine,

  Since Heav’ns Eternal Year is thine.) 15

  Hear then a Mortal Muse thy praise rehearse

  In no ignoble Verse;

  But such as thy own voice did practise here,

  When thy first Fruits of Poesie were given,

  To make thyself a welcome Inmate there; 20

  While yet a young Probationer,

  And Candidate of Heav’n.

  2

  If by Traduction came thy Mind,

  Our Wonder is the less to find

  A Soul so charming from a Stock so good; 25

  Thy Father was transfus’d into thy Blood:

  So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,

  (An early, rich, and inexhausted Vein.)

  But if thy Præ-existing Soul

  Was form’d, at first, with Myriads more, 30

  It did through all the Mighty Poets roul

  Who Greek or Latine Laurels wore,

  And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

  If so, then cease thy flight, O Heav’n-born Mind!

  Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore: 35

  Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find

  Than was the Beauteous Frame she left behind:

  Return, to fill or mend the Quire of thy Celestial kind.

  3

  May we presume to say, that at thy Birth,

  New joy was sprung in HEAV’N as well as here on Earth? 40

  For sure the Milder Planets did combine

  On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine,

  And ev’n the most Malicious were in Trine.

  Thy Brother-Angels at thy Birth

  Strung each his Lyre, and tun’d it high, 45

  That all the People of the Skie

  Might know a Poetess was born on Earth.

  And then if ever, Mortal Ears

  Had heard the Musick of the Spheres!

  And if no clust’ring Swarm of Bees 50

  On thy sweet Mouth distill’d their golden Dew,

  ’Twas that, such vulgar Miracles

  Heav’n had not Leasure to renew:

  For all the Blest Fraternity of Love

  Solemniz’d there thy Birth, and kept thy Holyday above. 55

  4

  O Gracious God! How far have we

  Prophan’d thy Heav’nly Gift of Poesy!

  Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,

  Debas’d to each obscene and impious use,

  Whose Harmony was first ordain’d Above, 60

  For Tongues of Angels and for Hymns of Love!

  Oh wretched We! why were we hurry’d down

  This lubrique and adult’rate age,

  (Nay, added fat Pollutions of our own)

  T’ increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage? 65

  What can we say t’ excuse our Second Fall?

  Let this thy Vestal, Heav’n, atone for all:

  Her Arethusian Stream remains unsoil’d,

  Unmixt with Forreign Filth and undefil’d,

  Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child. 70

  5

  Art she had none, yet wanted none,

  For Nature did that Want supply:

  So rich in Treasures of her Own,

  She might our boasted Stores defy:

  Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn, 75

  That it seem’d borrow’d, where ’twas only born.

  Her Morals too were in her Bosom bred

  By great Examples daily fed,

  What in the best of Books, her Father’s Life, she read.

  And to be read her self she need not fear; 80

  Each Test, and ev’ry Light, her Muse will bear,

  Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there.

  Ev’n Love (for Love sometimes her Muse exprest),

  Was but a Lambent-flame which play’d about her Breast:

  Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream, 85

  So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth exprest,

  ’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s Stream.

  6

  Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine,

  One wou’d have thought, she should have been content

  To manage well that Mighty Government; 90

  But what can young ambitious Souls confine?

  To the next Realm she stretcht her Sway,

  For Painture near adjoyning lay,

  A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.

  A Chamber of Dependences was fram’d, 95

  (As Conquerors will never want Pretence,

  When arm’d, to justifie th’ Offence),

  And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claim’d.

  The Country open lay without Defence;

  For Poets frequent In-rodes there had made, 100

  And perfectly cou’d represent

  The Shape, the Face, with ev’ry Lineament;

  And all the large Demains which the Dumb-sister sway’d;

  All bow’d beneath her Government,

  Receiv’d in Triumph wheresoe’re she went. 105

  Her Pencil drew whate’re her Soul design’d

  And oft the happy Draught surpass’d the Image in her Mind.

  The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks

  And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,

  Of shallow Brooks that flow’d so clear, 110

  The bottom did the top appear,

  Of deeper too and ampler Floods

  Which as in Mirrors, shew’d the Woods;

  Of lofty Trees, with Sacred Shades

  And Perspectives of pleasant Glades, 115

  Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear,

  And shaggy Satyrs standing near,

  Which them at once admire and fear.

  The Ruines too of some Majestick Piece,

  Boasting the Pow’r of ancient Rome or Greece, 120

  Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns, broken lie,

  And, tho’ defac’d, the Wonder of the Eye;

  What Nature, Art, bold Fiction, e’re durst frame,

  Her forming Hand gave Feature to the Name.

  So strange a Concourse ne’re was seen before, 125

  But when the peopl’d Ark the whole Creation bore.

  7

  The Scene then chang’d; with bold Erected Look

  Our Martial King the sight with Reverence strook:

  For, not content t’ express his Outward Part,

  Her hand call’d out the Image of his Heart, 130

  His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,

  His High-designing Thoughts were figurd’ there,

  As when, by Magick, Ghosts are made appear.

  Our Phenix queen was portrai’d too so bright,

  Beauty alone cou’d Beauty take so right: 135

  Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace,

  Were all observ’d, as well as heav’nly Face.

 
; With such a Peerless Majesty she stands,

  As in that Day she took the Crown from Sacred hands:

  Before a Train of Heroins was seen, 140

  In Beauty foremost, as in Rank, the Queen!

  Thus nothing to her Genius was deny’d,

  But like a Ball of Fire, the farther thrown,

  Still with a greater Blaze she shone,

  And her bright Soul broke out on ev’ry side. 145

  What next she had design’d, Heaven only knows:

  To such Immod’rate Growth her Conquest rose

  That Fate alone its Progress cou’d oppose.

  8

  Now all those Charms, that blooming Grace,

  The well-proportion’d Shape and beauteous Face, 150

  Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes;

  In Earth the much-lamented Virgin lies!

  Not Wit nor Piety cou’d Fate prevent;

  Nor was the cruel Destiny content

  To finish all the Murder at a blow, 155

  To sweep at once her Life and Beauty too;

  But, like a hardn’d Fellon, took a pride

  To work more Mischievously slow,

  And plunder’d first, and then destroy’d.

  O double Sacriledge on things Divine, 160

  To rob the Relique, and deface the Shrine!

  But thus Orinda dy’d:

  Heav’n, by the same Disease, did both translate,

  As equal were their Souls, so equal was their fate.

  9

  Mean time, her Warlike Brother on the Seas 165

  His waving Streamers to the Winds displays,

  And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays.

  Ah, Generous Youth! that Wish for-bear,

  The Winds too soon will waft thee here!

  Slack all thy Sails, and fear to come, 170

  Alas, thou know’st not, thou art wreck’d at home!

  No more shalt thou behold thy Sister’s Face,

  Thou hast already had her last Embrace.

  But look aloft, and if thou ken’st from far,

  Among the Pleiad’s, a New-kindl’d star, 175

  If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright,

  ’Tis she that shines in that propitious Light.

  10

  When in mid-Air the Golden Trump shall sound,

  To raise the Nations under ground;

  When in the Valley of Jehosaphat 180

  The Judging God shall close the book of Fate;

  And there the last Assizes keep

  For those who Wake and those who Sleep;

  When ratling Bones together fly

  From the four Corners of the Skie, 185

  When Sinews o’re the Skeletons are spread,

  Those cloath’d with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead;

  The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound,

  And formost from the Tomb shall bound:

  For they are cover’d with the lightest ground; 190

  And streight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing,

  Like mounting Larks, to the New Morning sing.

  There Thou, sweet Saint, before the Quire shalt go,

  As Harbinger of Heav’n, the Way to show,

  The Way which thou so well hast learn’d below. 195

  Upon the Death of the Viscount of Dundee

  OH Last and Best of Scots! who did’st maintain

  Thy Country’s Freedom from a Foreign Reign;

  New People fill the Land, now thou art gone,

  New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne.

  Scotland and Thee did each in other live, 5

  Nor wou’dst thou her, nor cou’d she thee survive.

  Farewel! who living didst support the State,

  And coud’st not fall but with thy Country’s Fate

  Epitaph on the Lady Whitmore

  FAIR, Kind, and True, a Treasure each alone,

  A Wife, a Mistress, and a Friend in one,

  Rest in this Tomb, rais’d at thy Husband’s cost,

  Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.

  Come Virgins, ere in equal Bands ye join, 5

  Come first and offer at her Sacred Shrine;

  Pray but for half the Vertues of this Wife,

  Compound for all the rest with longer Life;

  And wish your Vows, like hers, may be return’d,

  So Lov’d when Living, and when Dead so Mourn’d. 10

  Eleonora: A Panegyrical Poem

  Dedicated to the Memory of the late Countess of Abingdon

  To the Right Honourable the Earl of Abingdon, &c.

  My Lord, — The Commands, with which You honour’d me some Months ago are now perform’d: they had been sooner; but betwixt ill health, some business, and many troubles, I was forc’d to deferr them till this time. Ovid, going to his Banishment, and writing from on Shipbord to his Friends, excus’d the Faults of his Poetry by his Misfortunes; and told them that good Verses never flow, but from a serene and compos’d Spirit. Wit, which is a kind of Mercury with Wings fasten’d to his Head and Heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to Obey You late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing anything, at any time, which is worthy Your Perusal and Your Patronage. I cannot say that I have escap’d from a Shipwreck; but have only gain’d a Rock by hard swimming; where I may pant a while and gather breath: For the Doctors give me a sad assurance that my Disease never took its leave of any man but with a purpose to return. However, my Lord, I have laid hold on the Interval, and menag’d the small Stock which Age has left me to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to my Ladies memory. We who are Priests of Apollo have not the Inspiration when we please; but must wait until the God comes rushing on us, and invades us with a fury, which we are not able to resist: which gives us double strength while the Fit continues, and leaves us languishing and spent, at its departure. Let me not seem to boast; my Lord; for I have really felt it on this Occasion and prophecy’d beyond my natural power. Let me add and hope to be believ’d, that the Excellency of the Subject contributed much to the Happiness of the Execution: And that the weight of thirty Years was taken off me, while I was writing. I swom with the Tyde, and the water under me was buoyant. The Reader will easily observe, that I was transported, by the multitude and variety of my Similitudes, which are generally the product of a luxuriant Fancy; and the wantonness of Wit. Had I call’d in my Judgement to my assistance, I had certainly retrench’d many of them. But I defend them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of Critiques: For the whole Poem, though written in that which they call Heroique Verse, is of the Pindarique nature, as well in the Thought as the Expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it. It was intended, as Your Lordship sees in the Title, not for an Elegie, but a Panegyrique. A kind of Apotheosis, indeed; if a Heathen Word may be applyed to a Christian use. And on all Occasions of Praise, if we take the Ancients for our Patterns, we are bound by Prescription to employ the magnificence of Words, and the force of Figures, to adorn the sublimity of Thoughts. Isocrates amongst the Grecian Orators, and Cicero, and the younger Pliny, amongst the Romans, have left us their Precedents for our security: For I think I need not mention the inimitable Pindar, who stretches on these Pinnions out of sight, and is carried upward, as it were, into another World.

  This, at least, my Lord, I may justly plead, that if I have not perform’d so well as I think I have, yet I have us’d my best endeavours to excel my self. One Disadvantage I have had, which is, never to have known, or seen my Lady: And to draw the Lineaments of her Mind, from the Description which I have receiv’d from others, is for a Painter to set himself at work without the living Original before him. Which the more beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive; when he has only a relation given him of such and such Features by an Acquaintance or a Friend; without the Nice Touches, which give the best Resemblance, and make the Graces of the Picture. Every Artis
t is apt enough to flatter himself (and I amongst the rest) that their own ocular Observations would have discover’d more perfections, at least others, than have been deliver’d to them: Though I have receiv’d mine from the best hands, that is, from Persons who neither want a just Understanding of my Lady’s Worth, nor a due Veneration for her Memory.

  Doctor Donn the greatest Wit, though not the best Poet, of our Nation, acknowledges that he had never seen Mrs. Drury, Whom he has made immortal in his admirable Anniversaries; I have had the same fortune; though I have not succeeded to the same Genius. However, I have followed his footsteps in the Design of his Panegyrick, which was to raise an Emulation in the living, to Copy out the Example of the dead. And therefore it was, that I once intended to have call’d this poem, The Pattern: And though, on a second consideration, I chang’d the Title into the Name of that Illustrious Person, yet the Design continues, and Eleonora is still the Pattern of Charity, Devotion, and Humility; of the best Wife, the best Mother, and the best of Friends.

  And now, my Lord, though I have endeavour’d to answer Your Commands, yet I cou’d not answer it to the World nor to my Conscience, if I gave not Your Lordship my Testimony of being the best Husband now living: I say my Testimony only: For the praise of it, is given You by Your self. They who despise the Rules of Virtue both in their Practice and their Morals, will think this a very trivial Commendation. But I think it the peculiar happiness of the Countess of Abingdon, to have been so truly lov’d by you, while she was living, and so gratefully honour’d, after she was dead. Few there are who have either had, or cou’d have such a loss; and yet fewer who carried their Love and Constancy beyond the Grave. The exteriours of Mourning, a decent Funeral, and black Habits, are the usual stints of Common Husbands: and perhaps their Wives deserve no better than to be mourn’d with Hypocrisie, and forgot with ease. But You have distinguish’d Yourself from ordinary Lovers, by a real and lasting grief for the Deceas’d, And by endeavouring to raise for her the most durable Monument, which is that of Verse. And so it wou’d have proved, if the Workman had been equal to the Work; and Your Choice of the Artificer as happy as Your Design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the Statue of Minerva, cou’d not forbear to ingrave his own Name, as Author of the Piece: so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to this Poem, I may live by the Goddess, and transmit my Name to Posterity by the memory of Hers. ’Tis no flattery to assure Your Lordship, that she is remember’d in the present Age, by all who have had the Honour of her Conversation and Acquaintance; and that I have never been in any Company since the news of her death was first brought me, where they have not extoll’d her Virtues; and even spoken the same things of her in Prose which I have done in Verse.