AN ODE, By way of ELEGY, ON The universally lamented Death Of the incomparable MR. DRYDEN.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam Chari Capitis? Praecipe lugubres
Cantus Melpomene—
Quando ullum inveniam parem?
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit.
Horat. lib 1. ode 25.
By Alexander Oldys.
LONDON, Printed and Sold by most Booksellers, 1700.
To my worthy Friend Mr. James Dixon.
SIR,
THE many and great obligations, which you have been pleas'd to lay on me, give me the greatest confusion imaginable, at present, when I consider that I am sueing for a Greater Favour than All, in being the liberty to praefix your Name to these Lines; which, tho' I am sensible they will be Condemn'd by The Great, yet the shame of that can no way affect you, when I do you the justice to assure the Town, that it is contrary to your knowledge, that you are becom my Patron: so your Nicer sense cannot be accountable in the least; for you had no hand in it, and you may plead
—Quae non fecimus Ipsi
Vix ea nostra voco —
Nay, you were not Guilty of so much as of the knowledge of This my wicked Intentions; wicked, I mean if it should offend you and my other Friends; who need not Blush for me, Since I have already such a terrour upon my Conscience for this Aggression, as is, I think, a punishment, in som measure, Equal to my Crime, and all that I can urge in my defence, is that it was pure Respect to the dear memory of This Great Man, to whom I had the honour to be known, that provok'd, or, let me rather say— oblig'd me to Expose my self on this occasion. I never attempted any thing in [Page] this measure for the Publick before; and I doubt not that I shall do yet severer penance for it, in the censures of our Awful Wits, which I already fear; but your Judgement is still more dreaded than All, by
Worthy Sir,
Your most oblig'd, obedient and humble Servant Alexander Oldys.
AN ODE, On the Death of MR. DRYDEN.
ON a soft Bank of Camomel I sate,
Or'shaded by two mournful Yews;
(Doubtless, it was the will of Fate
I this retreat shou'd choose)
Where on delicious Poetry I fed
Amazing Thoughts chil'd all my blood,
And almost stopt the vital Floud;
As Dryden's sacred Verse I read.
Whil'st Killing Raptures seiz'd my head,
I shook, as If I had foreknow'n
What All-Commanding Fate had don;
What for our Souv'reign Dryden had design'd,
Till Sleep o'r whelm'd my Brain as Sorrow had my mind;
To think that All the great, ev'n He must dy,
And Here, in Fame alone, have Immortality.
When, in my dream The Fatal Muse
With Hair dishevell'd and in tears,
Melpomene appears
Upon my Throbbing heart her hand she lay'd.
Her hand as Cold as Death; and thus she said,
Least of my Care, be calm'd! No more Just Heav'n accuse!
II.
Eternal Fate has said:— He must Remove;
The Bards Triumphant wait for him Above.
To Everlasting Day and Blest Abodes
(The seats of Poets and of Gods)
He's gon, to fill the Throne
Which None cou'd fill but He Alone;
The Glorious Throne for Him prepar'd;
Of Glorious Acts The Glorious, Just Reward.
See, see, As He Ascends on high,
The sacred Bards attending in the Sky!
So low do they Descend
To meet Their Now Immortal Friend!
Immortal There Above and Here Below,
As long as Men shall Wit and English know
Th' unequal'd Dryden must be so,
Immortal in his Verse, in Verse unequal'd too.
She said,— Then disappear'd; when I
Cou'd plainly see all that was don on High.
III.
I saw Above an universal Joy,
Perfect, without alloy;
(so Great as ne'r till then had been,
Since the sweet Waller Enter'd in)
When all that sacred Company,
Brought the triumphant Bard from Ours to Heaven's great Jubile.
That was the' occasion of his Happiness,
And of our Sorrows (surely) that the Cause,
Call'd hence Heav'ns Monarchs praise to help express
And to receive for that his Own deserv'd applause.
There wanted still one in the Heav'nly Quire,
Dryden Alone was their Desire,
Whom for the sacred song th' Almighty did Inspire.
'Twas Pitty to Ʋs that so long delay'd
His Blest Translation to Eternal Light;
Or, otherwise may we not be Afraid
'Twas for the sins of som who durst presume to Write?
VVho durst in Verse, in Sacred Poetry,
Ev'n Heav'n's own design bely,
And damn themselves with utmost Industry!
For This may we not dread
The mighty Prophet's taken from our head?
And tho the fate of these I fear,
I in Respect must venture here.
A Long and Racking VVar was sent,
Of Common Sins, a Common Punishment;
To the unthinking Crowd the only Curse;
Who feel no Loss but in their Purse:
But (Ah!) what Loss can now be worse?
The Mighty Pan ha's left our mournful shoar;
The Mighty Pan is Gon, Dryden is Here no more.
IV.
When to the Blest, Bright Region he was com,
The Vulgar Angels Gaz'd, and made him room:
Each Laureat Monarch welcom's him on high,
And to Embrace him all together fly:
Then strait the Happy Guest is show'n
To his Bright and Lofty Throne,
Inferiour there to None.
A Crown beset with litle Suns, whose Rays
Shoot forth in foliages resembling Bays,
Now on his Head they place:
Then round him all the Sacred Band
Lowdly Congratulating stand:
When, after Silence made,
Thus the Sweetest VValler said
Well hast Thou merited, Triumphant Bard!
For, once I knew Thee Militant Below,
VVhen I my self was so;
Dang'rous thy Post, the Combat Fierce and Hard,
Ignorance and Rebellion still Thy Foe
But for those litle pains see now the Great Reward!
Mack-Fleeknoe and Achitophel
Can now no more disturb thy peace,
Thy Labours past, thy Endless joys encrease,
The more Thou hast endur'd the more Thou do'st Excel.
And for the Laurels snatch' from Thee Below
Thou wear'st an Everlasting Crown upon thy Hallow'd Brow.
V.
The Bard who next the New-born saint Addrest
VVas Milton, for his Wonderous Poem Blest;
VVho strangely found, in his Lost Par'dise, Rest.
Great Bard (said he) 'twas Verse alone
Did for my Hideous Crime attone,
Defending once the worst Rebellion.
A Double share of Bliss belongs to Thee,
For thy Rich Verse and thy firm Loyalty,
Som of my Harsh, and Ʋncouth Points do ow
To Thee a Tuneful Cadance still Below.
Thine was, Indeed, The State of Innocence,
Mine of offence,
With study'd Treason and self-intrest staind;
Till Par'dise Lost wrought Paradise Regain'd.
He said: — When thus our English Abraham,
(In Heaven the second of that Name,
Cowley as Glorious there as Sacred here in Fame,)
Welcom, Aleides, to this Happy Place!
Our Wish, and our Long Expectation here,
Makes thee to us more Dear;
Thou great destroyer of that Monstrous Race,
Which our sad, former seat did Harrass and Disgrace,
Be Blest and Welcom'd with our Praise,
Thy Great, Herculean Labours don,
And all the Courses of thy Zodiac run;
Shine here to us a more Illustrious Sun!
But see! Thy Brethren Gods in Poetry,
The whole Great Race Divine,
Ready in thy Applause to joyn,
Who will Supply what is Defect in me.
(6)
Rochester once on Earth a Prodigy,
A happy Convert now on High,
Here begins his Wond'rous Laies,
In the Sainted Poet's Praise.
Fathomless Buckingham, smooth Orrery,
The Witty D' Avenant, Denham, Suckling too,
Shakespear, Natures Kneller, who
Natures Picture likest drew,
Each in their turn his Praise pursue.
His Song Elab'rate Johnson next do's try,
On Earth unus'd to Elogy:
Beaument and Fletcher Sing together still,
And with their Tuneful Notes the Arched Palace fill:
The Noble Patron Poet now do's try,
His Wondrous Spenser to outvy:
Drayton did next our Sacred Bard Address,
And Sung Above with wonderful success.
Our English Ennius, He who gave,
To The Great Bard kind welcom to his Grave,
Chaucer, the Mighty'st Bard of yor'e,
Whose Verse cou'd Mirth, to saddest Souls restore,
Caress'd him next whil'st his delighted Eye,
Express'd his Love, and thus his Tongue his Joy,
Was I, when erst Below (said he)
In hopes so Great a Bard to see:
As Thou my Son, Adopted into me,
And all this Godlike Race, some equal ev'n to Thee!
O! tis enough. — Here soft Orinda came,
And Spritely Afra, Muses Both on Earth;
Both Burn'd here with a Bright Poetic flame,
Which to their happiness above gave birth;
Their Charming Songs, his entertainment close,
The mighty Bard then smiling, Bow'd and 'rose.
(7)
Strait from his head, each takes his Laurel'd Crown,
And on the Golden Pavment casts it down:
All prostrate fall, before Heavens High Imperial Throne;
When the New Saint begins his song Alone:
Won'drous even there, It was Confest,
Scarce to be Equal'd by the Rest:
Herbert nor Crashaw, tho on earth Divine,
So sweetly cou'd their Numbers Joyn!
When (Lo!) the Light of twenty thousands Suns,
All in one Body, shining All at once,
Darts from Th' Imperial to this Lower Court;
A Light which They but hardly cou'd support!
Then the Great Anthem was begun.
Wich all the Hallowd Bards together sing;
And by no Choir of angels is out done,
But by The Great Seraphic Choir Alone,
That day and night surround The Awful Throne
Of Heavens Eternal King:
Even They Themselves did the Great Chorus fill,
And brought the Grateful sounds to Heav'n's High Holy'st Hill.
(8)
My Soul shook with the Sacred Harmony,
Which soon alarm'd my heart;
I fancy'd I was falling from on High
And waken'd with a start;
Wak'd (said I?) surely no; I did not sleep;
Can they be Dreams which such Impressions make?
My soul do's still the Blest Idea's keep;
And still (methinks,) I see 'em tho Awake!
The other thrones too, which, tho vacant, shone
With Greater Glory then the sun,
Come fresh into my mind;
Which once will lose their lustre by their Bards outdon.
VVhen fill'd with those for whom they are design'd;
Upon their fronts I saw the Glitt'ring names,
All written in Coelestial flames.
For Dorset what a Pallace did I see!
For Montague! And what for Normanby!
VVhat Glorys wait for Wycheryl!
For Congreve, Southern, Tate, Garth, Addison?
For Stepney, Prior and for Dennis too;
VVhat Thrones are void, what Joys prepard and due?
The Pleasant Dear Companion Cheek
(VVhom all the Great altho at Midnight, seek)
His Glorious wreath must wear and endless Joys persue.
And for Motteux, my Gallic Friend,
The like Triumphant Laurels wait;
Tho Heav'n, I hope, will send it very late,
E'r' They or He to their Blest Seats ascend.
Tis in Their Verse, next His, that He must Live;
Next His, Their Lines Eternal Fame can give,
Then all the Happiness on Earth I know
Is, that such Godlike Men as they are with us still below.
FINIS.