by John Dryden
Nor wonder if such Deeds of Arms were done,
Inspir’d by two fair Eyes that sparkled like your own. 10
If Chaucer by the best Idea wrought,
And Poets can divine each other’s Thought,
The fairest Nymph before his Eyes he set;
And then the fairest was Plantagenet;
Who three contending Princes made her Prize, 15
And rul’d the Rival-Nations with her Eyes:
Who left Immortal Trophies of her Fame,
And to the Noblest Order gave the Name.
Like Her, of equal Kindred to the Throne,
You keep her Conquests, and extend your own: 20
As when the Stars, in their Etherial Race,
At length have roll’d around the Liquid Space,
At certain Periods they resume their Place,
From the same Point of Heav’n their Course advance,
And move in Measures of their former Dance; 25
Thus, after length of Ages, she returns,
Restor’d in you, and the same Place adorns:
Or you perform her Office in the Sphere,
Born of her Blood, and make a new Platonick Year.
O true Plantagenet, O Race Divine, 30
(For Beauty still is fatal to the Line,)
Had Chaucer liv’d that Angel-Face to view,
Sure he had drawn his Emily from You;
Or had You liv’d to judge the doubtful Right,
Your Noble Palamon had been the Knight: 35
And Conqu’ring Theseus from his Side had sent
Your Gen’rous Lord, to guide the Theban Government
Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see
A Palamon in him, in You an Emily.
Already have the Fates your Path prepar’d, 40
And sure Presage your future Sway declar’d:
When Westward, like the Sun, you took your Way,
And from benighted Britain bore the Day,
Blue Triton gave the Signal from the Shore,
The ready Nereids heard, and swam before 45
To smooth the Seas; a soft Etesian Gale
But just inspir’d, and gently swell’d the Sail;
Portunus took his Turn, whose ample Hand
Heav’d up the lighten’d Keel, and sunk the Sand,
And steer’d the sacred Vessel safe to Land. 50
The Land, if not restrain’d, had met Your Way,
Projected out a Neck, and jutted to the Sea.
Hibernia, prostrate at your Feet, ador’d
In You the Pledge of her expected Lord;
Due to her Isle; a venerable Name; 55
His Father and his Grandsire known to Fame;
Aw’d by that House, accustom’d to command,
The sturdy Kerns in due subjection stand,
Nor hear the Reins in any Foreign Hand.
At Your Approach, they crowded to the Port; 60
And scarcely Landed, You create a Court:
As Ormond’s Harbinger, to You they run,
For Venus is the Promise of the Sun.
The Waste of Civil Wars, their Towns destroy’d,
Pales unhonour’d, Ceres unemploy’d, 65
Were all forgot; and one Triumphant Day
Wipd all the Tears of three Campaigns away.
Blood, Rapines, Massacres, were cheaply bought,
So mighty Recompense Your Beauty brought.
As when the Dove returning bore the Mark 70
Of Earth restor’d to the long-lab’ring Ark,
The Relicks of Mankind, secure of Rest,
Op’d every Window to receive the Guest,
And the fair Bearer of the Message bless’d;
So, when You came, with loud repeated Cries, 75
The Nation took an Omen from your Eyes,
And God advanc’d his Rainbow in the Skies,
To sign inviolable Peace restor’d;
The Saints with solemn Shouts proclaim’d the new accord.
When at Your second Coming You appear, 80
(For I foretell that Millenary Year)
The sharpen’d Share shall vex the Soil no more,
But Earth unbidden shall produce her Store:
The Land shall laugh, the circling Ocean smile,
And Heav’n’s Indulgence bless the Holy Isle. 85
Heav’n from all Ages has reserv’d for You
That happy Clime, which Venom never knew;
Or if it had been there, Your Eyes alone
Have Pow’r to chase all Poyson, but their own.
Now in this Interval, which Fate has cast 90
Betwixt Your Future Glories and Your Past,
This Pause of Pow’r, ’tis Irelands Hour to mourn;
While England celebrates Your safe Return,
By which You seem the Seasons to command,
And bring our Summers back to their forsaken Land. 95
The Vanquish’d Isle our Leisure must attend,
Till the Fair Blessing we vouchsafe to send;
Nor can we spare You long, though often we may lend.
The Dove was twice employ’d abroad, before
The World was dry’d; and she return’d no more. 100
Nor dare we trust so soft a Messenger,
New from her Sickness, to that Northern Air;
Rest here a while, Your Lustre to restore,
That they may see You, as You shone before;
For yet, th’ Eclipse not wholly past, You wade 105
Thro’ some Remains and Dimness of a Shade.
A Subject in his Prince may claim a Right,
Nor suffer him with Strength impair’d to fight;
Till Force returns, his Ardour we restrain,
And curb his Warlike Wish to cross the Main. 110
Now past the Danger, let the Learn’d begin
Th’ Enquiry, where Disease could enter in;
How those malignant Atoms forc’d their Way,
What in the Faultless Frame they found to make their Prey?
Where ev’ry Element was weigh’d so well, 115
That Heav’n alone, who mix’d the Mass, could tell
Which of the Four Ingredients could rebel;
And Where, imprison’d in so sweet a Cage,
A Soul might well be pleas’d to pass an Age.
And yet the fine Materials made it weak; 120
Porcelain by being Pure, is apt to break.
Ev’n to Your Breast the Sickness durst aspire,
And forc’d from that fair Temple to retire,
Profanely set the Holy Place on Fire.
In vain Your Lord, like young Vespasian, mourn’d, 125
When the fierce Flames the Sanctuary burn’d,
And I prepar’d to pay in Verses rude
A most detested Act of Gratitude:
Ev’n this had been Your Elegy, which now
Is offer’d for Your Health, the Table of my Vow. 130
Your Angel sure our Morley’s Mind inspir’d,
To find the Remedy Your Ill requir’d;
As once the Macedon, by Jove’s Decree,
Was taught to dream an Herb for Ptolomee:
Or Heav’n, which had such Over-cost bestow’d 135
As scarce it could afford to Flesh and Blood,
So lik’d the Frame, he would not work anew,
To save the Charges of another You.
Or by his middle Science did he steer,
And saw some great contingent Good appear, 140
Well worth a Miracle to keep You here,
And for that End preserv’d the precious Mould,
Which all the Future Ormonds was to hold;
And meditated, in his better Mind
An Heir from You who may redeem the failing Kind. 145
Bless’d be the Power which has at once restor’d
The Hopes of lost Succession to Your Lord;
Joy to the first, and last of each Degree,
Vertue to Cour
ts, and, what I long’d to see,
To You the Graces, and the Muse to me. 150
O daughter of the Rose, whose Cheeks unite
The diff’ring Titles of the Red and White;
Who Heav’ns alternate Beauty well display,
The Blush of Morning, and the Milky Way;
Whose Face is Paradise, but fenc’d from Sin: 155
For God in either Eye has placed a Cherubin.
All is Your Lord’s alone; ev’n absent, He
Employs the Care of Chast Penelope.
For him You waste in Tears Your Widow’d Hours,
For him Your curious Needle paints the Flow’rs; 160
Such Works of Old Imperial Dames were taught,
Such for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought.
The soft Recesses of Your Hours improve
The Three fair Pledges of Your Happy Love:
All other Parts of Pious Duty done, 165
You owe Your Ormond nothing but a son,
To fill in future Times his Father’s Place,
And wear the Garter of his Mother’s Race.
Palamon and Arcite: or the Knight’s Tale. Book I
From Chaucer
IN Days of old, there liv’d, of mighty Fame
A valiant Prince; and Theseus was his Name:
A Chief, who more in Feats of Arms excell’d
The Rising nor the Setting Sun beheld.
Of Athens he was Lord; much Land he won, 5
And added Foreign Countrys to his Crown.
In Scythia with the Warriour Queen he strove,
Whom first by Force he conquer’d, then by Love;
He brought in Triumph back the beauteous Dame,
With whom her Sister, fair Emilia, came. 10
With Honour to his Home let Theseus ride,
With Love to Friend, and Fortune for his Guide,
And his victorious Army at his Side.
I pass their warlike Pomp, their proud Array,
Their Shouts, their Songs, their Welcome on the Way: 15
But, were it not too long, I would recite
The Feats of Amazons, the fatal Fight
Betwixt the hardy Queen and Heroe Knight.
The Town besieg’d, and how much Blood it cost
The Female Army, and th’ Athenian Host; 20
The Spousals of Hippolita the Queen;
What Tilts, and Turneys at the Feast were seen;
The Storm at their Return, the Ladies Fear:
But these and other Things I must forbear.
The Field is spacious I design to sow, 25
With Oxen far unfit to draw the Plow:
The Remnant of my Tale is of a length
To tire your Patience, and to waste my Strength;
And trivial Accidents shall be forborn,
That others may have time to take their Turn; 30
As was at first enjoin’d us by mine Host:
That he whose Tale is best, and pleases most,
Should win his Supper at our common Cost.
And therefore where I left, I will pursue
This ancient Story, whether false or true, 35
In hope it may be mended with a new.
The Prince I mention’d, full of high Renown,
In this Array drew near th’ Athenian Town;
When, in his Pomp and utmost of his Pride,
Marching, he chanc’d to cast his Eye aside, 40
And saw a Quire of mourning Dames, who lay
By Two and Two across the common Way:
At his Approach they rais’d a rueful Cry,
And beat their Breasts, and held their Hands on high,
Creeping and crying, till they seiz’d at last 45
His Coursers Bridle and his Feet embrac’d.
Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are,
And why this Funeral Pageant you prepare?
Is this the Welcome of my worthy Deeds,
To meet my Triumph in Ill-omen’d Weeds? 50
Or envy you my Praise, and would destroy
With Grief my Pleasures, and pollute my Joy?
Or are you injur’d, and demand Relief?
Name your Request, and I will ease your Grief.
The most in Years of all the Mourning Train 55
Began; (but sounded first away for Pain)
Then scarce recover’d, spoke: Nor envy we
Thy great Renown, nor grudge thy Victory;
Tis thine, O King, th’ Afflicted to redress,
And Fame has fill’d the World with thy Success: 60
We wretched Women sue for that alone,
Which of thy Goodness is refus’d to none:
Let fall some Drops of Pity on our Grief,
If what we beg be just, and we deserve Relief:
For none of us, who now thy Grace implore, 65
But held the Rank of Sovereign Queen before;
Till, thanks to giddy Chance, which never bears
That Mortal Bliss should last for length of Years,
She cast us headlong from our high Estate,
And here in hope of thy Return we wait: 70
And long have waited in the Temple nigh,
Built to the gracious Goddess Clemency.
But rev’rence thou the Pow’r whose Name it bears,
Relieve th’ Oppressed, and wipe the Widows Tears.
I, wretched I, have other Fortune seen, 75
The Wife of Capaneus, and once a Queen:
At Thebes he fell; curs’d be the fatal Day!
And all the rest thou seest in this Array,
To make their Moan their Lords in Battel lost,
Before that Town besieg’d by our Confed’rate Host: 80
But Creon, old and impious, who commands
The Theban City, and usurps the Lands,
Denies the Rites of Fun’ral Fires to those
Whose breathless Bodies yet he calls his Foes.
Unburn’d, unbury’d, on a Heap they lie; 85
Such is their Fate, and such his Tyranny;
No Friend has leave to bear away the Dead,
But with their Lifeless Limbs his Hounds are fed.
At this she shriek’d aloud, the mournful Train
Echo’d her Grief, and grov’ling on the Plain, 90
With Groans, and Hands upheld, to move his Mind,
Besought his Pity to their helpless Kind!
The Prince was touch’d, his Tears began to flow,
And, as his tender Heart would break in two,
He sigh’d; and could not but their Fate deplore, 95
So wretched now, so fortunate before.
Then lightly from his lofty Steed he flew,
And raising one by one the suppliant Crew,
To comfort each, full solemnly he swore,
That by the Faith which Knights to Knighthood bore, 100
And what e’er else to Chivalry belongs,
He would not cease, till he reveng’d their Wrongs:
That Greece should see perform’d what he declar’d,
And cruel Creon find his just Reward.
He said no more, but shunning all Delay 105
Rode on; nor enter’d Athens on his Way;
But left his Sister and his Queen behind,
And wav’d his Royal Banner in the Wind:
Where in an Argent Field the God of War
Was drawn triumphant on his Iron Carr; 110
Red was his Sword, and Shield, and whole Attire,
And all the Godhead seem’d to glow with Fire;
Ev’n the Ground glitter’d where the Standard flew,
And the green Grass was dy’d to sanguine Hue.
High on his pointed Lance his Pennon bore 115
His Cretan Fight, the conquer’d Minotaure:
The Soldiers shout around with generous Rage,
And in that Victory, their own presage.
He prais’d their Ardour, inly pleas’d to see
His Host, the Flow’r of Grecian Ch
ivalry. 120
All Day he march’d; and all th’ ensuing Night;
And saw the City with returning Light.
The Process of the War I need not tell,
How Theseus conquer’d, and how Creon fell:
Or after, how by Storm the Walls were won, 125
Or how the Victor sack’d and burn’d the Town;
How to the Ladies he restor’d again
The Bodies of their Lords in Battel slain;
And with what ancient Rites they were interr’d;
All these to fitter time shall be deferr’d: 130
I spare the Widows Tears, their woful Cries,
And Howling at their Husbands Obsequies;
How Theseus at these Fun’rals did assist,
And with what Gifts the mourning Dames dismiss’d.
Thus when the Victor Chief had Creon slain, 135
And conquer’d Thebes, he pitch’d upon the Plain
His mighty Camp, and when the Day return’d,
The Country wasted and the Hamlets burn’d;
And left the Pillagers, to Rapine bred,
Without Controul to strip and spoil the Dead. 140
There, in a Heap of Slain, among the rest
Two youthful Knights they found beneath a Load oppress’d
Of slaughter’d Foes, whom first to Death they sent,
The Trophies of their Strength, a bloody Monument.
Both fair, and both of Royal Blood they seem’d, 145
Whom Kinsmen to the Crown the Heralds deem’d;
That Day in equal Arms they fought for Fame;
Their Swords, their Shields, their Surcoats were the same.
Close by each other laid they press’d the Ground,
Their manly Bosoms pierc’d with many a griesly Wound; 150
Nor well alive nor wholly dead they were,
But some faint Signs of feeble Life appear:
The wandring Breath was on the Wing to part,
Weak was the Pulse, and hardly heav’d the Heart.
These two were Sisters Sons; and Arcite one, 155
Much fam’d in Fields, with valiant Palamon.
From These their costly Arms the Spoilers rent,
And softly both convey’d to Theseus Tent:
Whom, known of Creon’s Line and cur’d with Care,
He to his City sent as Pris’ners of the War, 160
Hopeless of Ransom, and condemn’d to lie
In Durance, doom’d a lingring Death to die.
This done, he march’d away with warlike Sound,
And to his Athens turn’d with Laurels crown’d,
Where happy long he liv’d, much lov’d, and more renown’d. 165
But in a Tow’r, and never to be loos’d.
The woful captive Kinsmen are enclos’d.
Thus Year by Year they pass, and Day by Day,
Till once (’twas on the Morn of chearful May)