by John Dryden
To find a Blank beyond the thirti’th Page;
And with a pious fear begin to doubt
The Piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.
But ’twas her Saviour’s time; and, cou’d there be
A Copy near th’ Original, ’twas she. 300
As precious Gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the Temple, and expire,
So was she soon exhal’d; and vanish’d hence;
A short sweet Odour, of a vast expence.
She vanish’d, we can scarcely say she dy’d; 305
For but a Now, did Heav’n and Earth divide:
She pass’d serenely with a single breath,
This moment perfect health, the next was death.
One sigh, did her eternal Bliss assure;
So little Penance needs, when Souls are almost pure. 310
As gentle Dreams our waking Thoughts pursue;
Or, one Dream pass’d, we slide into a new;
(So close they follow, such wild Order keep,
We think our selves awake, and are asleep:)
So softly death succeeded life, in her; 315
She did but dream of Heav’n, and she was there.
No Pains she suffer’d, nor expir’d with Noise;
Her Soul was whisper’d out, with God’s still Voice;
As an old Friend is beckon’d to a Feast,
And treated like a long familiar Guest; 320
He took her as he found; but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go.
Ev’n on that day, in all her Trim prepar’d;
As early notice she from Heav’n had heard,
And some descending Courier, from above 325
Had giv’n her timely warning to remove:
Or counsell’d her to dress the nuptial Room;
For on that Night the Bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Cloath’d all in white, the Liv’ry of the Day: 330
Scarce had she sinn’d in thought, or word, or act;
Unless Omissions were to pass for fact:
That hardly Death a Consequence cou’d draw,
To make her liable to Nature’s Law.
And that she dy’d, we only have to show, 335
The mortal part of her she left below:
The rest (so smooth, so suddenly she went)
Looked like Translation, through the Firmament;
Or like the fiery Carr, on the third Errand sent.
O happy Soul! if thou canst view from high 340
Where thou art all Intelligence, all Eye,
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find’st that any way be pervious,
Survey the ruines of thy House, and see
Thy widow’d, and thy Orphan Family; 345
Look on thy tender Pledges left behind;
And, if thou canst a vacant Minute find
From Heav’nly Joys, that Interval afford
To thy sad Children and thy mourning Lord.
See how they grieve, mistaken in their love, 350
And shed a beam of Comfort from above;
Give ‘em, as much as mortal Eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with mod’rate sorrow may sustain
And mollifie their Losses, in thy Gain. 355
Or else divide the grief, for such thou wert,
That should not all Relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single heart.
Let this suffice: Nor thou, great Saint, refuse
This humble Tribute of no vulgar Muse: 360
Who, not by Cares, or Wants, or Age deprest,
Stems a wild Deluge with a dauntless brest:
And dares to sing thy Praises, in a Clime
Where Vice triumphs and Vertue is a Crime:
Where even to draw the Picture of thy Mind, 365
Is Satyr on the most of Humane Kind:
Take it, while yet ’tis Praise; before my rage
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad Age;
So bad, that thou thy self had’st no defence
From Vice, but barely by departing hence. 370
Be what, and where thou art: To wish thy place,
Were in the best, Presumption, more than grace.
Thy Reliques (such thy Works of Mercy are)
Have, in this Poem, been my holy care.
As Earth thy Body keeps, thy Soul the Sky, 375
So shall this Verse preserve thy Memory;
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.
FINIS.
On the Death of Mr. Purcell
1
MARK how the Lark and Linnet sing,
With rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of night, 5
When Philomel begins her Heav’nly Lay,
They cease their mutual spight,
Drink in her Musick with delight,
And list’ning and silent, and silent and list’ning, and list’ning and silent obey.
2
So ceas’d the rival Crew, when Purcell came, 10
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
Struck dumb, they all admir’d
The godlike man,
Alas, too soon retir’d,
As He too late began. 15
We beg not Hell our Orpheus to restore;
Had He been there,
Their Sovereigns fear
Had sent Him back before.
The pow’r of Harmony too well they knew; 20
He long e’er this had Tun’d their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.
3
The Heav’nly Quire, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Musick from the Sky:
They handed him along, 25
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
Ye Brethren of the Lyre and tunefull Voice,
Lament his lott: but at your own rejoyce.
Now live secure, and linger out your days,
The Gods are pleas’d alone with Purcell’s Layes, 30
Nor know to mend their Choice.
The Monument of a Fair Maiden Lady, who dy’d at Bath, and is there interr’d
BELOW this Marble Monument is laid
All that Heav’n wants of this Celestial Maid.
Preserve, O sacred Tomb, thy Trust consign’d:
The Mold was made on purpose for the Mind:
And she wou’d lose, if at the latter Day 5
One Atom cou’d be mix’d, of other clay.
Such were the Features of her heavenly Face;
Her Limbs were form’d with such harmonious Grace,
So faultless was the Frame, as if the Whole
Had been an Emanation of the Soul; 10
Which her own inward Symmetry reveal’d;
And like a Picture shone, in Glass anneal’d
Or like the Sun eclips’d, with shaded Light:
Too piercing, else, to be sustain’d by Sight.
Each Thought was visible that rowl’d within: 15
As through a Crystal Case, the figur’d Hours are seen.
And Heav’n did this transparent Veil provide,
Because she had no guilty Thought to hide.
All white, a Virgin-Saint, she sought the Skies:
For Marriage, tho’ it sullies not, it dies. 20
High tho’ her Wit, yet humble was her Mind;
As if she cou’d not, or she wou’d not find
How much her Worth transcended all her Kind.
Yet she had learn’d so much of Heav’n below,
That, when arriv’d, she scarce had more to know: 25
But only to refresh the former Hint:
And read her Maker in a fairer Print.
So Pious, as she had
no time to spare,
For human Thoughts, but was confin’d to Pray’r.
Yet in such Charities she pass’d the Day, 30
’Twas wondrous how she found an Hour to Pray.
A Soul so calm, it knew not Ebbs or Flows,
Which Passion cou’d but curl; not discompose.
A Female Softness, with a manly Mind;
A Daughter duteous, and a Sister kind: 35
In Sickness patient; and in Death resign’d.
On the Death of Amyntas. A Pastoral Elegy
‘TWAS on a Joyless and a Gloomy Morn,
Wet was the Grass, and hung with Pearls the Thorn,
When Damon, who design’d to pass the Day
With Hounds and Horns, and chase the flying Prey.
Rose early from his Bed; but soon he found 5
The Welkin pitch’d with sullen Clouds around.
An Eastern Wind, and Dew upon the Ground.
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The Fields, and curs’d th’ ill Omens of the Day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace; 10
Wet were his Eyes, and chearless was his Face:
Hewrung his Hands, distracted with his Care,
And sent his Voice before him from afar.
Return, he cry’d, return unhappy Swain,
The spungy Clouds are fill’d with gath’ring Rain: 15
The Promise of the Day not only crossed,
But ev’n the Spring, the Spring it self is lost.
Amyntas — Oh! he cou’d not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess’d.
Equal with Heav’n young Damon loved the Boy; 20
The boast of Nature, both his Parents Joy.
His graceful Form revolving in his Mind;
So great a Genius, and a Soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his Fears were true;
Too well the Envy of the Gods he knew: 25
For when their Gifts too lavishly are plac’d,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For, sure, it was too bountiful a Dole,
The Mother’s Features, and the Father’s Soul.
Then thus he cry’d, The Morn bespoke the News, 30
The Morning did her chearful Light diffuse,
But see how suddenly she changed her Face,
And brought on Clouds and Rains, the Day’s disgrace:
Just such, Amyntas, was thy promis’d Race.
What Charms adorn’d thy Youth where Nature smil’d, 35
And more than Man was giv’n us in a Child.
His Infancy was ripe: a Soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time;
Heav’n gave him all at once; then snatch’d away,
E’re Mortals all his Beauties cou’d survey, 40
Just like the Flow’r that buds and withers in a day.
MENALCAS.
The Mother Lovely, tho’ with Grief opprest,
Reclin’d his dying Head upon her Breast.
The mournful Family stood all around;
One Groan was heard, one Universal Sound: 45
All were in Floods of Tears and endless Sorrow drown’d.
So dire a Sadness sate on ev’ry Look,
Ev’n Death repented he had giv’n the Stroke.
He griev’d his fatal Work had been ordain’d,
But promis’d length of Life to those who yet remain’d. 50
The Mother’s and her Eldest Daughters Grace,
It seems had brib’d him to prolong their space.
The Father bore it with undaunted Soul,
Like one who durst his Destiny controul:
Yet with becoming Grief he bore his part, 55
Resign’d his Son, but not resign’d his Heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing Family!
DAMON.
Such is my Wish, and such my Prophesie.
For Yet, my Friend, the Beauteous Mold remains, 60
Long may she exercise her fruitful Pains:
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a Race
More lasting, and endu’d with equal Grace:
Equal she may, but farther none can go;
For he was all that was exact below. 65
MENALCAS.
Damon, behold yon breaking Purple Cloud;
Hear’st thou not Hymns and Songs Divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young Cherubs play
About their Godlike Mate, and Sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid Air, behold, he Flies, 70
And every Moment gains upon the Skies;
The new come Guest admires th’ Ætherial State,
The Saphyr Portal, and the Golden Gate;
And now admitted in the shining Throng,
He shows the Passport which he brought along. 75
His Passport is his Innocence and Grace,
Well known to all the Natives of the Place.
Now Sing, yee joyful Angels, and admire
Your Brother’s Voice that comes to mend your Quire:
Sing you, while endless Tears our Eyes bestow; 80
For like Amyntas none is left below.
On the Death of a very Young Gentleman
HE who cou’d view the Book of Destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O Charming Youth, in the first op’ning Page,
So many Graces in so green an Age,
Such Wit, such Modesty, such strength of Mind, 5
A Soul at once so manly and so kind,
Wou’d wonder, when he turned the Volume o’re,
And after some few Leaves shou’d find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of Life that promised such a Race, 10
We must not, dare not think, that Heav’n began
A Child, and cou’d not finish him a Man:
Reflecting what a mighty Store was laid
Of rich Materials, and a Model made:
The Cost already furnished; so bestow’d, 15
As more was never to one Soul allow’d:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mould’ring Ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the Shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, Heav’n kept it for himself; 20
And giving us the use, did soon recal,
E’re we cou’d spare, the mighty Principal.
Thus then he disappear’d, was rarify’d,
For ’tis improper Speech to say he dy’d:
He was exhal’d: His great Creator drew 25
His Spirit, as the Sun the Morning Dew.
’Tis Sin produces Death; and he had none,
But the Taint Adam left on ev’ry Son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
’Twas but th’ Original forfeit of his Blood; 30
And that so little, that the River ran
More clear than the corrupted Fount began.
Nothing remained of the first muddy Clay,
The length of Course had wash’d it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold 35
The Gravel bottom, and that bottom Gold.
As such we lov’d, admir’d, almost ador’d,
Gave all the Tribute Mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the Pow’rs above
Grew angry at our superstitious Love: 40
For when we more than Human Homage pay,
The charming Cause is justly snatched away.
Thus was the Crime not his, but ours alone;
And yet we murmur that he went so soon,
Though Miracles are short and rarely shown. 45
Hear then, yee mournful Parents, and divide
That Love in many which in one was ty’d.
That individual Blessing is no more,
But multiply’d i
n your remaining store.
The Flame’s dispersed, but does not all expire: 50
The Sparkles blaze, though not the Globe of Fire.
Love him by Parts in all your num’rous Race,
And from those Parts form one collected Grace;
Then, when you have refin’d to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is He. 55
Upon Young Mr. Rogers, of Gloucestershire
OF gentle Blood, his Parents only Treasure,
Their lasting Sorrow and their vanish’d Pleasure.
Adorn’d with Features, Virtues, Wit, and Grace,
A large Provision for so short a Race:
More mod’rate Gifts might have prolong’d his Date, 5
Too early fitted for a better State:
But, knowing Heav’n his Home, to shun Delay
He leap’d o’er Age, and took the shortest Way.
On Mrs. Margaret Paston, of Barningham, in Norfolk
SO fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a Judgment, and so rare a Wit,
Require at least an Age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
‘T was Gold too fine to fix without Allay. 5
Heav’n’s Image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravish’d from an Age like this,
Now she is gone, the World is of a Piece.
Epitaph on a Nephew in Catworth Church, Huntingdonshire
STAY, Stranger, stay, and drop one Tear;
She allways weeps that layd him here;
And will do till her Race is run:
His Father’s fifth, her only Son.
SONGS, ODES AND LYRICAL PIECES
CONTENTS
The Tears of Amynta for the Death of Damon
Song (“Sylvia the fair, in the bloom of Fifteen”)
A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, November 22, 1687
The Lady’s Song
A Song to a Fair Young Lady going out of Town in the Spring
Alexander’s Feast; Or, The Power of Musique.
A Song (“Go tell Amynta, gentle Swain”)
Rondelay
The Fair Stranger
A Song (“Fair, sweet and young, receive a prize”)
A Song (“High State and Honours to others impart”)
The Secular Masque
Song of a Scholar and his Mistress
The Tears of Amynta for the Death of Damon
Song
1
ON a Bank, beside a Willow,
Heav’n her Cov’ring, Earth her Pillow,
Sad Amynta sigh’d alone;