John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  I then was passing to my former state

  Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve.

  The Eve of Dryden expresses the same apprehensions of annihilation upon a very different occasion. These passages form a contrast highly favourable to the simplicity and chastity of Milton’s taste. The school logic, employed by Adam and the angels in the first scene of the fourth act, however misplaced, may be paralleled if not justified, by similar instances in the “Paradise Lost.”

  On the other hand, the “State of Innocence” contains many passages of varied and happy expression peculiar to our great poet; and the speech of Lucfier in Paradise (Act third, scene first), approaches in sublimity to his prototype in Milton, Indeed, altered as this poem was from the original, in order to accommodate it to the taste of a frivolous age, it still retained too much fancy to escape the raillery of the men of wit and fashion, more disposed to “laugh at extravagance, than to sympathise with feelings of grandeur.” The “Companion to the Theatre” mentions an objection started by the more nice and delicate critics, against the anachronism and absurdity of Lucifer conversing about the world, its form and vicissitudes, at a time previous to its creation, or, at least, to the possibility of his knowing any thing of it. But to this objection, which applies to the “Paradise Lost” also, it is sufficient to reply, that the measure of intelligence, competent to supernatural beings, being altogether unknown to us, leaves the poet at liberty to accommodate its extent to the purposes in which he employs them, without which poetic license, it would be in vain to introduce them. Dryden, moved by this, and similar objections, has prefixed to the drama, “An Apology for Heroic Poetry,” and the use of what is technically called “the machinery” employed in it.

  Upon the whole, it may be justly questioned, whether Dryden shewed his judgment in the choice of a subject which compelled an immediate parallel betwixt Milton and himself, upon a subject so exclusively favourable to the powers of the former. Indeed, according to Dennis, notwithstanding Dryden’s admiration of Milton, he evinced sufficiently by this undertaking, what he himself confessed twenty years afterwards, that he was not sensible of half the extent of his excellence. In the “Town and Country Mouse,” Mr Bayes is made to term Milton “a rough unhewen fellow;” and Dryden himself, even in the dedication to the Translation from Juvenal, a work of his advanced life, alleges, that, though he found in that poet a true sublimity, and lofty thoughts, clothed with admirable Grecisms, he did not find the elegant turn of words and expression proper to the Italian poets and to Spenser. In the same treatise, he undertakes to excuse, but not to justify Milton, for his choice of blank verse, affirming that he possessed neither grace nor facility in rhyming. A consciousness of the harmony of his own numbers, and a predilection for that kind of verse, in which he excelled, seemed to have encouraged him to think he could improve the “Paradise Lost.” Baker observes but too truly, that the “State of Innocence” recals the idea reprobated by Marvell in his address to Milton:

  Or if a work so infinite be spanned,

  Jealous I was, lest some less skilful hand,

  Such as disquiet always what is well,

  And by ill-imitating would excel,

  Might hence presume the whole creation’s day

  To change in scenes, and shew it in a play.

  The “State of Innocence” seems to have been undertaken by Dryden during a cessation of his theatrical labours, and was first published in 1674, shortly after the death of Milton, which took place on the 8th of November in the same year.

  CONTENTS

  TO MR DRYDEN, ON HIS POEM OF PARADISE.

  THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY FOR HEROIC POETRY, AND POETIC LICENCE.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE DUCHESS.

  Madam,

  Ambition is so far from being a vice in poets, that it is almost impossible for them to succeed without it. Imagination must be raised, by a desire of fame, to a desire of pleasing; and they whom, in all ages, poets have endeavoured most to please, have been the beautiful and the great. Beauty is their deity, to which they sacrifice, and greatness is their guardian angel, which protects them. Both these, are so eminently joined in the person of your royal highness, that it were not easy for any but a poet to determine which of them outshines the other. But I confess, madam, I am already biassed in my choice. I can easily resign to others the praise of your illustrious family, and that glory which you derive from a long-continued race of princes, famous for their actions both in peace and war: I can give up, to the historians of your country, the names of so many generals and heroes which crowd their annals, and to our own the hopes of those which you are to produce for the British chronicle. I can yield, without envy, to the nation of poets, the family of Este, to which Ariosto and Tasso have owed their patronage, and to which the world has owed their poems. But I could not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme of your beauty to another hand. Give me leave, madam, to acquaint the world, that I am jealous of this subject; and let it be no dishonour to you, that, after having raised the admiration of mankind, you have inspired one man to give it voice. But, with whatsoever vanity this new honour of being your poet has filled my mind, I confess myself too weak for the inspiration: the priest was always unequal to the oracle: the god within him was too mighty for his breast: he laboured with the sacred revelation, and there was more of the mystery left behind, than the divinity itself could enable him to express. I can but discover a part of your excellencies to the world; and that, too, according to the measure of my own weakness. Like those who have surveyed the moon by glasses, I can only tell of a new and shining world above us, but not relate the riches and glories of the place. ’Tis therefore that I have already waved the subject of your greatness, to resign myself to the contemplation of what is more peculiarly yours. Greatness is indeed communicated to some few of both sexes; but beauty is confined to a more narrow compass: ’tis only in your sex, ’tis not shared by many, and its supreme perfection is in you alone. And here, madam, I am proud that I cannot flatter; you have reconciled the differing judgments of mankind; for all men are equal in their judgment of what is eminently best. The prize of beauty was disputed only till you were seen; but now all pretenders have withdrawn their claims: there is no competition but for the second place; even the fairest of our island, which is famed for beauties, not daring to commit their cause against you to the suffrage of those, who most partially adore them. Fortune has, indeed, but rendered justice to so much excellence, in setting it so high to public view; or, rather, Providence has done justice to itself, in placing the most perfect workmanship of heaven, where it may be admired by all beholders. Had the sun and stars been seated lower, their glory had not been communicated to all at once, and the Creator had wanted so much of his praise, as he had made your condition more obscure: but he has placed you so near a crown, that you add a lustre to it by your beauty. You are joined to a prince, who only could deserve you; whose conduct, courage, and success in war; whose fidelity to his royal brother, whose love for his country, whose constancy to his friends, whose bounty to his servants, whose justice to merit, whose inviolable truth, and whose magnanimity in all his actions, seem to have been rewarded by heaven by the gift of you. You are never seen but you are blest; and I am sure you bless all those who see you. We think not the day is long enough when we behold you; and you are so much the business of our souls, that while you are in sight, we can neither look nor think on any else. There are no eyes for other beauties; you only are present, and the rest of your sex are but the unregarded parts that fill your triumph. Our sight is so intent on the object of its admiration, that our tongues have not leisure even to praise you: for language seems too low a thing to express your excellence; and our souls are speaking so much within, that they despise all foreign conversation. Every man, even the dullest, is thinking more than the most eloquent can teach him how to utter. Thu
s, madam, in the midst of crowds, you reign in solitude; and are adored with the deepest veneration, that of silence. ’Tis true, you are above all mortal wishes; no man desires impossibilities, because they are beyond the reach of nature. To hope to be a god, is folly exalted into madness; but, by the laws of our creation, we are obliged to adore him, and are permitted to love him too at human distance. ’Tis the nature of perfection to be attractive, but the excellency of the object refines the nature of the love. It strikes an impression of awful reverence; ’tis indeed that love which is more properly a zeal than passion. ’Tis the rapture which anchorites find in prayer, when a beam of the divinity shines upon them; that which makes them despise all worldly objects; and yet ’tis all but contemplation. They are seldom visited from above, but a single vision so transports them, that it makes up the happiness of their lives. Mortality cannot bear it often: it finds them in the eagerness and height of their devotion; they are speechless for the time that it continues, and prostrate and dead when it departs. That ecstacy had need be strong, which, without any end, but that of admiration has power enough to destroy all other passions. You render mankind insensible to other beauties, and have destroyed the empire of love in a court which was the seat of his dominion. You have subverted (may I dare to accuse you of it?) even our fundamental laws; and reign absolute over the hearts of a stubborn and free-born people, tenacious almost to madness of their liberty. The brightest and most victorious of our ladies make daily complaints of revolted subjects, if they may be said to be revolted, whose servitude is not accepted; for your royal highness is too great, and too just a monarch, either to want or to receive the homage of rebellious fugitives. Yet, if some few among the multitude continue stedfast to their first pretensions, ’tis an obedience so lukewarm and languishing, that it merits not the name of passion; their addresses are so faint, and their vows so hollow to their sovereigns, that they seem only to maintain their faith out of a sense of honour: they are ashamed to desist, and yet grow careless to obtain. Like despairing combatants, they strive against you as if they had beheld unveiled the magical shield of your Ariosto, which dazzled the beholders with too much brightness. They can no longer hold up their arms; they have read their destiny in your eyes:

  Splende lo scudo, a guisa di piropo;

  E luce altra non é tanto lucente:

  Cader in terra a lo splendor fu d’vopo,

  Con gli occhi abbacinati, e senza mente.

  And yet, madam, if I could find in myself the power to leave this argument of your incomparable beauty, I might turn to one which would equally oppress me with its greatness; for your conjugal virtues have deserved to be set as an example, to a less degenerate, less tainted age. They approach so near to singularity in ours, that I can scarcely make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satire on many others. But your person is a paradise, and your soul a cherubim within, to guard it. If the excellence of the outside invite the beholders, the majesty of your mind deters them from too bold approaches, and turns their admiration into religion. Moral perfections are raised higher by you in the softer sex; as if men were of too coarse a mould for heaven to work on, and that the image of divinity could not be cast to likeness in so harsh a metal. Your person is so admirable, that it can scarce receive addition, when it shall be glorified: and your soul, which shines through it, finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace.

  I know not how I am hurried back to my former theme; I ought and purposed to have celebrated those endowments and qualities of your mind, which were sufficient, even without the graces of your person, to render you, as you are, the ornament of the court, and the object of wonder to three kingdoms. But all my praises are but as a bull-rush cast upon a stream; if they sink not, ’tis because they are borne up by the strength of the current, which supports their lightness; but they are carried round again, and return on the eddy where they first began. I can proceed no farther than your beauty; and even on that too I have said so little, considering the greatness of the subject, that, like him who would lodge a bowl upon a precipice, either my praise falls back, by the weakness of the delivery, or stays not on the top, but rolls over, and is lost on the other side. I intended this a dedication; but how can I consider what belongs to myself, when I have been so long contemplating on you! Be pleased then, madam, to receive this poem, without entitling so much excellency as yours, to the faults and imperfections of so mean a writer; and instead of being favourable to the piece, which merits nothing, forgive the presumption of the author; who is, with all possible veneration,

  Your Royal Highness’s

  Most obedient, most humble,

  Most devoted servant,

  John Dryden.

  TO MR DRYDEN, ON HIS POEM OF PARADISE.

  Forgive me, awful poet, if a muse,

  Whom artless nature did for plainness chuse,

  In loose attire presents her humble thought,

  Of this best poem that you ever wrought.

  This fairest labour of your teeming brain

  I would embrace, but not with flatt’ry stain.

  Something I would to your vast virtue raise,

  But scorn to daub it with a fulsome praise;

  That would but blot the work I would commend,

  And shew a court-admirer, not a friend.

  To the dead bard your fame a little owes,

  For Milton did the wealthy mine disclose,

  And rudely cast what you could well dispose:

  He roughly drew, on an old fashioned ground,

  A chaos; for no perfect world was found,

  Till through the heap your mighty genius shined:

  He was the golden ore, which you refined.

  He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid,

  And to a place of strength the prize conveyed:

  You took her thence; to court this virgin brought,

  Drest her with gems, new weaved her hard-spun thought,

  And softest language sweetest manners taught;

  Till from a comet she a star doth rise,

  Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.

  Betwixt you both is trained a nobler piece,

  Than e’er was drawn in Italy or Greece.

  Thou from his source of thoughts even souls dost bring,

  As smiling gods from sullen Saturn spring.

  When night’s dull mask the face of heaven does wear,

  ’Tis doubtful light, but here and there a star,

  Which serves the dreadful shadows to display,

  That vanish at the rising of the day;

  But then bright robes the meadows all adorn,

  And the world looks as it were newly born.

  So, when your sense his mystic reason cleared,

  The melancholy scene all gay appeared;

  Now light leapt up, and a new glory smiled,

  And all throughout was mighty, all was mild.

  Before this palace, which thy wit did build,

  Which various fancy did so gaudy gild,

  And judgment has with solid riches filled,

  My humbler muse begs she may sentry stand,

  Amongst the rest that guard this Eden land.

  But there’s no need, for ev’n thy foes conspire

  Thy praise, and, hating thee, thy work admire.

  On then, O mightiest of the inspired men!

  Monarch of verse! new themes employ thy pen.

  The troubles of majestic Charles set down;

  Not David vanquished more to reach a crown.

  Praise him as Cowley did that Hebrew king:

  Thy theme’s as great; do thou as greatly sing.

  Then thou may’st boldly to his favour rise,

  Look down, and the base serpent’s hiss despise;

  From thund’ring envy safe in laurel sit,

  While clam’rous critics their vile heads submit,

  Condemned for treason at the bar of wit.
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  Nat. Lee.

  THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY FOR HEROIC POETRY, AND POETIC LICENCE.

  To satisfy the curiosity of those, who will give themselves the trouble of reading the ensuing poem, I think myself obliged to render them a reason why I publish an opera which was never acted. In the first place, I shall not be ashamed to own, that my chiefest motive was, the ambition which I acknowledged in the Epistle. I was desirous to lay at the feet of so beautiful and excellent a princess, a work, which, I confess, was unworthy her, but which, I hope, she will have the goodness to forgive. I was also induced to it in my own defence; many hundred copies of it being dispersed abroad without my knowledge, or consent: so that every one gathering new faults, it became at length a libel against me; and I saw, with some disdain, more nonsense than either I, or as bad a poet, could have crammed into it, at a month’s warning; in which time it was wholly written, and not since revised. After this, I cannot, without injury to the deceased author of “Paradise Lost,” but acknowledge, that this poem has received its entire foundation, part of the design, and many of the ornaments, from him. What I have borrowed will be so easily discerned from my mean productions, that I shall not need to point the reader to the places: And truly I should be sorry, for my own sake, that any one should take the pains to compare them together; the original being undoubtedly one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced. And though I could not refuse the partiality of my friend, who is pleased to commend me in his verses, I hope they will rather be esteemed the effect of his love to me, than of his deliberate and sober judgment. His genius is able to make beautiful what he pleases: Yet, as he has been too favourable to me, I doubt not but he will hear of his kindness from many of our contemporaries for we are fallen into an age of illiterate, censorious, and detracting people, who, thus qualified, set up for critics.