To the MEMORY OF Mr. DRYDEN.
A POEM.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. DRYDEN.
A POEM.
Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit,
Ut ad id unum natum diceres quodcunque ageret.
LONDON, Printed for Charles Brome, at the Gun, at the West-End of St. Paul's Church, 1700.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. DRYDEN. A POEM.
WHen Mortals form'd of common Clay, expire,
These vulgar Souls an Elegy require:
But some Hero of more heav'nly Frame,
Exerts his Valour, and extends his Fame;
Below the Spheres impatient to abide,
With universal Joy is Deifi'd.
Thus our triumphant Bard from hence is fled;
But let us never, never say he's dead;
Let Poetasters make the Muses mourn,
And common place it o'er his sacred Urn;
The publick Voice exalts him to the Sky,
And Fate decrees him Immortality,
[Page 6]Ordains instead of Tears or mournful Herse,
His Apotheosis be sung in Verse.
Great Poets sure are form'd of heav'nly Race,
And with great Hero's justly claim a Place.
As Caesar's Pen did Caesar best commend,
And all the Elogies of Rome transcend;
So Dryden's Muse alone, like Phebus bright,
Outshines all human Praise or borrow'd Light,
To form his Image, and to make it true,
There must be Art, and Inspiration too:
Auspic'ous Stars had doom'd him to the Trade,
By Nature fram'd, by Art a Poet made:
Thus Maro's Words and Sense in him we see,
And Ovid's teeming Vein of Poesie.
In his vast Miscellan'ous Works we find,
What charms at once; and edifies the Mind:
His pregnant Muse has in the Offspring shown,
What's rare for Use, or Beauty to be known:
In monumental everlasting Verse,
Epitomiz'd he grasp'd the Universe.
No Pow'r but his could tune a British Lyre
To sweeter Notes than any Tuscan Quire,
Teutonick Words to animate and raise,
Strong, shining Musical as Attic Lays;
Rude Matter indispos'd he form'd Polite,
His Muse seem'd rather to create than write.
His nervous Eloquence is brighter far
Than florid Pulpit, or the noisie Bar.
[Page 7]His Per'ods shine harmon'ous in the close,
As if a Muse presided in his Prose;
Yet unaffected plain, but strong his Stile,
It overflows to fructifie, like Nile.
The God of Wit conspires with all the Nine
To make the Orator and Poet joyn.
We're charm'd when he the Lady or the Friend,
Pleas'd, in Majestic Numbers to commend.
The Panegiric flows in Streams profuse,
When Worth or Beauty sublimates the Muse.
His Notes are moving, powerful and strong,
As Orph'us Lyre, or as a Syren's Song.
Sweet as the happy Idumean Fields,
And fragrant as the Flow'rs that Tempe yields.
Thrice happy she to whom such Tribute's pay'd,
And has such Incense at her Altar lay'd:
A Sacrifice that might with Envy move,
Iove's Consort, or the charming Queen of Love.
His lasting Lines will give a sacred Name,
(Eternal Records in the Book of Fame)
His Favourites are doom'd by Iove's Decree.
To share with him in Imortality.
The wealthy Muse on innate Mines could live,
Tho' no Mecenas any Smile would give;
His Light not burrow'd, but was all his own;
His Rays were bright and warm without the Sun.
Pictures (weak Images of him) are sold,
The French are proud to have the Head for Gold:
The Eccho of his Verse has charm'd their Ear;
O could they comprehend the Sound they hear!
Who hug the Cloud caress an airy Face,
What would they give the Goddess to embrace?
The Characters his steady Muse could frame,
Are more than like, they are so much the same;
The Pencil and the Mirrour faintly live,
'Tis but the Shadow of a Life they give;
Like Resurrect'on from the silent Grave
He the numeric Soul and Body gave.
No Art, no Hand but his could e'er bring home,
The noblest choicest Flow'rs of Greece and Rome;
Transplant them with sublimest Art and Toil,
And make them flourish in a British Soil.
Whatever Ore he cast into his Mold
He did the dark Philosophy unfold,
And by a touch converted all to Gold.
With Epic Feet who ere can steady run,
May drive the fi'ry Char'ot of the Sun,
Must neither soar too high, nor fall too low;
Must neither burn like Fire, nor freeze like Snow.
All Ages mighty Conquerours have known.
Who Courage and their Pow'r in Arms have shown:
Who durst engage in lofty Epic Strain
Heroicks here were Lands unknown before,
Our great Columbus first descry'd the Shoar.
No Prophet mov'd the Pass'ons of the Mind,
With Sov'rain Pow'r and Force so unconfin'd:
We sympathiz'd with his Poetic Rage,
In lofty Buskins when he rul'd the Stage;
He rais'd our Love, our Hope, Despairs, and Fears,
Dissolv'd in Joy we were, or drown'd in Tears.
When juster Indignation rows'd his Hate,
Insipid Rymes to lash, or Knaves of State;
Each Line's a Sting, and ev'ry Sting a Death,
As if their Fate depended on his Breath.
Like Sun-Beams swift, his si'ry Shafts were sent,
Or Lightning darted from the Firmament.
No warmer Clime, no Age, or Muse Divine,
In pointed Satyr cou'd our Bard out-shine.
His inexhausted Force knew no decay,
In spite of Years his Muse grew young and gay,
And vig'rous, like the Patriarch of old,
His last born Ioseph cast in finest Mold:
This Son of Sixty Nine surpassing fair,
With any elder Offspring may compare;
Has Charms in Courts of Monarchs to be seen,
Caress'd and cherish'd by a longing Queen.
Great Prophets oft extend their just Command,
Receive the Tribute of a Foreign Land;
When in their own ingrateful native Ground
Few just, admiring Votaries they found.
But when these God-like Men their Clay resign,
Pale Envy's lay'd a Victim at their Shrine;
United Mortals do their Worth proclaim,
And Altars raise to their eternal Fame.
Wealth, Beauty, force of Wit, without Allay,
In Dryden's heav'nly Muse profusely lay;
Which mighty Charms did never yet combine,
In any single Deity to shine:
But were dispens'd more thriftily between
Iove's Wife, his Daughter, and the Cypr'an Queen.
The Nymphs recorded in his artful Lays,
Produce the grateful Homage of their Praise;
Assisted in their Vows by Pow'rs Divine,
Offer their sacred Incense at his Shrine.
The Spher's exalt their Musick to comend,
The Poet's Master and the Muses Friend;
In Consort form Seraphick Notes to sing,
Of Numbers, and of Harmony the King.
In this triumphant Scene to act her Part,
Nature's attended by her Hand-maid Art:
Resounding Eccho with her mimic Voice,
Concurs to make the Universe Rejoyce.
Let ev'ry Tongue and Pen the Poet sing,
Who mounts Parnassus top with lofty Wing;
Whose splendid Muse has Crowns of Lawrel won,
That brave the shining Beauties of the Sun.
His Lines (those sacred Reliques of the Mind)
Not by the Laws of Fate, or War confin'd,
In spite of Flames will Everlasting prove,
Devouring Rust of Time, or angry Iove.
FINIS.