return to town, I intend to alter a play of sir Robert Howard's, written long since, and lately put into my hands; 'tis called The Conquest of China by the Tartars. It will cost me six weeks study, with the probable benefit of an hundred pounds. In the mean time I am writing a song, for St. Cecilia's Feast, who, you know, is the patroness of music. This is troublesome, and no way beneficial; but I could not deny the stewards of the feast, who came in a body to me to desire that kindness, one of them being Mr. Bridgeman, whose parents are your mother's friends. I hope to send you thirty guineas between Michaelmas and Christmas, of which I will give you an account when I come to town. I remember the counsel you give me in your letter; but dissembling, though lawful in some cases, is not my talent; yet, for your sake, I will struggle with the plain openness of my nature, and keep in my just resentments against that degenerate order. In the mean time, I flatter not myself with any manner of hopes, but do my duty, and suffer for God's sake; being assured, before hand, never to be rewarded, though the times should alter. Towards the latter end of this month, September, Charles will begin to recover his perfect health, according to his nativity, which, casting it myself, I am sure is true, and all things hitherto have happened accordingly to the very time that I predicted them: I hope at the same time to recover more health, according to my age. Remember me to poor Harry, whose prayers I earnestly desire. My Virgil succeeds in the world beyond its desert or my expectation. You know the profits might have been more; but neither my conscience nor my honour would suffer me to take them: but I never can repent of my constancy, since I am thoroughly persuaded of the justice of the cause for which I suffer. It has pleased God to raise up many friends to me amongst my enemies, though they who ought to have been my friends are negligent of me. I am called to dinner, and cannot go on with this letter, which I desire you to excuse; and am
"your most affectionate father,
ON DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI.
BY THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON
BEGONE, you slaves, you idle vermin go,
Fly from the scourges, and your master know;
Let free, impartial men, from Dryden learn
Mysterious secrets, of a high concern,
And weighty truths, solid convincing sense,
Explain'd by unaffected eloquence.
What can you (reverend Levi) here take ill?
Men still had faults, and men will have them still;
He that hath none, and lives as angels do,
Must be an angel; but what's that to you?
While mighty Lewis finds the pope too great,
And dreads the yoke of his imposing seat,
Our sects a more tyrannic power assume,
And would for scorpions change the rods of Rome;
That church detain'd the legacy divine;
Fanatics cast the pearls of Heaven to swine:
What then have thinking honest men to do,
But choose a mean between th' usurping two?
Nor can th' Egyptian patriarch blame thy Muse,
Which for his firmness does his heat excuse;
Whatever councils have approv'd his creed,
The preface sure was his own act and deed.
Will damn the goats for their ill-natur'd faults,
And save the sheep for actions, not for thoughts,
Hath too much mercy to send men to Hell,
For humble charity, and hoping well.
To what stupidity are zealots grown,
Whose inhumanity, profusely shown
In damning crowds of souls, may damn their own.
I'll err at least on the securer side,
A convert free from malice and from pride.
TO MY FRIEND, MR. JOHN DRYDEN,
ON HIS SEVERAL EXCELLENT TRANSLATIONS OF
THE ANCIENT POETS.
BY G. GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNE.
As flowers transplanted from a southern sky,
But hardly bear, or in the raising die;
Missing their native sun, at best retain
But a faint odour, and survive with pain:
Thus ancient wit, in modern numbers taught,
Wanting the warmth with which its author wrote,
Is a dead image, and a senseless draught.
While we transfuse, the nimble spirit flies,
Our church will have that preface read, you'll say: Escapes unseen, evaporates, and dies.
"Tis true: but so she will th' Apocrypha;
And such as can believe them, freely may.
But did that God, (so little understood)
Whose darling attribute is being good,
From the dark womb of the rude Chaos bring
Such various creatures, and make man their king,
Yet leave his favourite man, his chiefest care,
More wretched than the vilest insects are?
O! how much happier and more safe are they?
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey
Toyelling furies, and for ever burn
In that sad place from whence is no return,
For unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they could not do
The very fiends know for what crime they fell,
And so do all their followers that rebel:
If then a blind, well-meaning, Indian stray,
Shall the great gulf be show'd him for the way?
For better ends our kind Redeemer dy'd,
Or the fall'n angels' room will be but ill supply'd.
That Christ, who at the great deciding day
(For he declares what he resolves to say)
Who then to copy Roman wit desire,
Must imitate with Roman force and fire,
In elegance of style and phrase the same,
And in the sparkling genius, and the flame.
Whence we conclude from thy translated song,
So just, so smooth, so soft, and yet so strong,
Celestial poet! soul of harmony!
That every genius was reviv'd in thee.
Thy trumpet sounds, the dead are rais'd to light,
Never to die, and take to Heaven their flight;
Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich soil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton sails on every shore
For foreign wealth, insatiate still of more;
To her own wool the silks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous harvests India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an immortal name,
To lands remote sends forth his learned Muse,
The noblest seeds of foreign wit to choose:
Feasting our sense so many various ways, Say, is 't thy bounty, or thy thirst of praise? That, by comparing others, all might see, Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.
TO MR. DRYDEN,
BY JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.
How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise!
Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising thought;
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
And second youth is kindled in thy breast.
Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own:
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style:
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations show How thy own laurel first began to grow; How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling through the O may'st thou still the noble tale prolong, Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song: Then may we wondering read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams, Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold: How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell. Mag. Coll. Oxon. June 2, 1693.
THE POWER OF MUSIC.
AN ODE.
FROM MR. POPE'S ESSAY ON CRITICISM, L. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury "glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow.
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound.
The power of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
CHARACTER OF DRYDEN,
FROM AN ODE OF GRAY.
BEHOLD, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear:
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn
But, ah! tis heard no more-
Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
ACCOUNT OF THE ENGLISH POETS. BUT see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whose tuneful Muse affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words. Whether in comic sounds, or tragic airs, She forms her voice, she moves our smiles and tears. If satire or heroic strains she writes, Her hero pleases, and her satire bites. From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall, She wears all dresses, and she charms in all: How might we fear our English poetry, That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee: Did not the Muses' other hope appear, Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear! Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store Has given already much, and promis'd more. Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive, And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive.
TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good:
Where, though the Nine their beauteous strokes re
And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat,
It looks as if they strook them at a heat.
So all serenely great, so just refin'd,
Like angels love to human seed inclin'd,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms roll,
So brightly fierce, each syllable 's a soul.
'Tis miniature of man, but he 's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom ev'n the fanatics altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arose,
Fil'd off the rust, and the right party chose.
Nor, sir, be shock'd at what the gloomy say;
Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: push on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.
David, that rebel Israel's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd.
The beauties of your Absalom excel:
But more the charms of charming Annabel:
Of Aunabel, than May's first morn inore bright,
Cheerful as summer's noon, and chaste as winter's
Of Annabel, the Muse's dearest theme; [night.
Of Annabel, the angel of my dream,
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,
And to your masterpiece these shadows send.
OF ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.
His sovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.
Blest Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd,
And blest the cause that such a champion found!
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black Sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with subjects forc'd t' engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less-infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse:
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring,
To snarl and bark against the poets' king;
A crew, that scandalize the nation more,
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
HAIL, heaven-born Muse! hail, every sacred page! On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
The glory of our isle and of our age.
Th' inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh,
The North at length teems with a work, to vie
With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty.
While Pindus' lofty heights our poet sought,
(His ravish'd mind with vast ideas fraught)
Our language fail'd beneath his rising thought.
This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines
He drains of all their gold, t' adorn his lines:
Through each of which the Mantuan genius shines.
The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breast dissolv'd into a tide:
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as sense invents,
And, with his poem, a new speech presents.
Hail then, thou matchless bard, thou great unknown,
That give your country fame, yet shun your own!
In vain; for every where your praise you find,
And, not to meet it, you must shun mankind.
Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws,
And ev'n the factious give your verse applause,
Whose lightning strikes to ground their idol cause:
The cause for whose dear sake they drank a flood
Of civil gore, nor spar'd the royal blood;
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as ev'n from Faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise :
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.
TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR
OF THE MEDAL, AND ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.
THUS pious Ignorance, with dubious praise,
Altars of old to gods unknown did raise:
They knew not the lov'd Deity; they knew
Divine effects a cause divine did shew;
Nor can we doubt, when such these numbers are,
Such is their cause, though the worst Muse shall dare
Their sacred worth in humble verse declare.
As gentle Thames, charm'd with thy tuneful song,
Glides in a peaceful majesty along;
No rebel stone, no lofty bank, does brave
The easy passage of his silent wave:
So, sacred poet, so thy numbers flow,
Sinewy, yet mild as happy lovers woo;
The cause, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote Strong, yet harmonious too as planets move,
In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one stab of your keen satire dies;
Yet soft as down upon the wings of Love.
How sweet does Virtue in your dress appear;
Before your sacred lines their shatter'd Dagon lies. How much more charming, when much less severe !
Oh! if unworthy we appear to know
The sire, to whom this lovely birth we owe:
Deny'd our ready homage to express,
And can at best but thankful be by guess;
This hope remains: May David's godlike mind
(For him 'twas wrote) the unknown author find;
And, having found, shower equal favours down
On wit so vast, as could oblige a crown.
THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDAL.
ONCE more our awful poet arms, t' engage
The threatening hydra-faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Muse attends him to the field.
By Art and Nature for this task design'd,
Yet modestly the fight he long declia'd;
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loos'd his satire till the needful hour.
Whilst you our senses harmlessly beguile,
With all th' allurements of your happy style;
Y' insinuate loyalty with kind deceit,
And into sense th' unthinking many cheat.
So the sweet Thracian with his charming lyre
Into rude Nature virtue did inspire;
So he the savage herd to reason drew,
Yet scarce so sweet, so charmingly as you.
O that you would, with some such powerful charm,
Enervate Albion to just valour warm!
Whether much-suffering Charles shall theme afford,
Or the great deeds of godlike James's sword.
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again
Another fleet might pass the subject main,
Another Edward lead the Britons on,
Or such an Ossory as you did moan;
While in such numbers you, in such a strain,
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let false Achitophel the rout engage,
Talk easy Absalom to rebel rage;
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,
Or modest Corah more new plots reveal;
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