But as the Leader of the Herd fell first, A Sacrifice to quench the raging thirft
Of inflam'd Vengeance for paft Crimes: fo none But this white fatted Youngling could attone, By this untimely Fate, that impious Smoke That fullied Earth, and did Heavens pity choke. Let it fuffice for us, that we have loft,
In him, more than the widow'd World can boast In any lump of her remaining Clay.
Fair as the gray-ey'd Morn He was the Day, Youthful, and climbing upwards ftill, imparts No hafte like that of his increasing Parts: Like the Meridian-beam, his Virtues light Was feen; as full of comfort, and as bright. Ah that that Noon had been as fixt as clear! but He, That only wanted Immortality
To make him perfect, now fubmits to night; In the black bofom of whofe fable Spight, He leaves a cloud of Flesh behind, and flies, Refin'd all Ray and Glory, to the Skies.
Great Saint fhine there in an eternal Sphere, [near, And tell thofe Powers to whom thou now draw' That, by our trembling Sense, in HASTINGS dead, Their Anger, and our ugly Faults, are read: The short lines of whofe Life did to our eyes Their Love and Majefty epitomize.
Tell them whofe ftern Decrees impofe our Laws, The feafted Grave may clofe her hollow Jaws. Though Sin fearch Nature, to provide her here A fecond Entertainment half so dear, She'll never meet a Plenty like this Herfe, 'Till Time prefent her with the Universe.
Written by Mr. Dryden in the Year 1649, when at Westminster School.
M (The Honour of his ancient Family?)
UST noble Haftings Immaturely die,
Beauty and Learning thus together meet, To bring a Winding for a Wedding-Sheet?· Muft Virtue prove Death's Harbinger? muft She, With him expiring, feel Mortality?
Is Death (Sin's wages) Grace's now ? shall Art Make us more Learned, only to depart? If Merit be Disease, if Virtue Death;
To be Good, not to be; who'd then bequeath Himself to Difcipline? who'd not efteem Labour a Crime, Study felf-murther deem? Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be Dunces fecurely, Ign'rant healthfully.
Rare Linguift! whofe worth fpeaks it felf, whofe Tho' not his own, all Tongues befides do raife: [praise, Than whom, great Alexander may feem lefs; Who-Conquer'd Men, but not their Languages... In his Mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.
His Native Soil was the four parts o' th' Earth; All Europe was too narrow for his Birth.
A young Apoftle; and (with rev'rence may I fpeak it) infpir'd with gift of Tongues, as they. Nature gave him, a Child, what Men in vain Oft ftrive, by Art though further'd, to obtain. His Body was an Orb, his fublime Soul
Did move on Virtue's, and on Learning's Pole:
Whofe reg'lar motions better to our view, Than Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did fhew. Graces and Virtues, Languages and Arts, Beauty and Learning, fill'd up all the parts. Heav'ns Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear Scatter'd in others; all, as in their Sphere, Were fix'd and conglobat in's Soul; and thence Shone throw his Body, with fweet influence; Letting their Glories fo on each Limb fall, The whole Frame render'd was Celeftial. Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make, If thou this Hero's altitude canft take: But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all, Could we but prove thus Aftronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this Ray, (which shone More bright i' th' Morn, than others Beam at Noon) He'd take his Aftrolabe, and feek out here What new Star 'twas did gild our Hemisphere. Replenish'd then with fuch rare Gifts as these, Where was room left for fuch a foul Difeafe? The Nations fin hath drawn that Veil, which shrouds Our day-fpring in so fad benighting Clouds. Heaven would no longer truft its Pledge; but thus Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us.
Was there no milder way but the Small-Pox, very filth'nefs of Pandora's Box?
So many Spots, like naves, our Venus foil? One Jewel fet off with so many a foil?
Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh did Like Rofe-buds, stuck i' th' Lilly-skin about. [fprout Each little Pimple had a Tear in it,
To wail the fault its rifing did commit: Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at ftrife, Thus made an Insurrection 'gainst his Life. Or were these Gems fent to adorn his Skin, The Cab'net of a richer Soul within? No Comet need foretel his change drew on, Whofe Corps might seem a Constellation.
O had he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife
[Life! Had been, who from his death fhould draw their Who fhould, by one rich draught, become what e'er Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cafar, were:
Learn'd, Virtuous, Pious, Great; and have by this An Univerfal Metempsychosis.
Muft all these ag'd Sires in one Funeral Expire? All die in one fo young, so small? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great Fame Had fwoln 'bove any Greek or Roman Name. But hafty Winter, with one blaft, hath brought The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought. Thus fades the Oak i'th' fprig, i'th' blade the Corn; Thus without Young, this Phoenix dies, new born. Muft then old three-legg'd gray-beards with their Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches,live three ages out? [Gout, Times Offal, only fit for th' Hospital,
Or to hang Antiquaries Rooms withal; Muft Drunkards, Leachers, spent with finning, live With fuch helps as Broths, Poffets, Phyfick give? None live, but fuch as should die? Shall we meet With none but Choftly Fathers in the Street? Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way; And Show'rs of Tears Tempeftuous Sighs beft lay. The Tongue may fail; but over-flowing Eyes Will weep out lafting ftreams of Elegies.
But thou, O Virgin-widow, left alone, Now thy beloved, Heaven-ravisht Spoufe is gone, (Whofe skilful Sire in vain ftrove to apply Med'cines, when thy Balm was no Remedy) With greater than Platonick Love, O wed His Soul, tho' not his Body, to thy Bed : Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth Th' Idea's of his Virtue, Knowledge, Worth ; Transcribe th' Original in new Copies; give Hastings o' th' better part: fo fhall he live In's nobler half; and the great Grandfire be Of an Heroick Divine Progeny:
An Iffue, which t' Eternity fhall last, Yet but th' Irradiations which he caft. Erect no Mausoleums: for his best Monument is his Spouse's Marble breast.
WHAT art thou, Oh thou new found pain?
From what Infection doft thou spring?
Tell me, O tell me, thou Inchanting thing, Thy Nature and thy Name. Inform me by what fubtile Art, What pow'rful Influence,
You got fuch vaft Dominion in a part Of my unheeded and unguarded Heart, That Fame and Honour cannot drive you thence? Oh mischievous Ufurper of my Peace! Oh foft Intruder of my folitude!
Charming disturber of my Eafe, That haft my nobler Fate purfu'd;
And all the Glories of my Life fubdu❜d.
Thou haunt'ft my inconvenient hours, The business of the Day, nor filence of the Night, That thou'd to Cares and Sleep invite, Can bid defiance to thy conquering Pow'rs. Where haft thou been this live-long Age, That from my birth till now
Thou never didft one Thought ingage, Or charm my Soul with the uneafie rage, That made it all its humbler Feebles know? Where wert't thou, O malicious Sprite, When shining Glory did invite!
When Int'reft call'd then thou wer't shy,
Nor one kind Aid to my Affistance brought ; Nor would'st inspire one tender Thought, When Princes at my Feet did lye.
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