THOU hast inspired me with thy soul, and I
Who ne'er before could ken of poetry,
Am grown so good proficient, I can lend
A line in commendation of my friend.
Yet 'tis but of the second hand; if aught
There be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought.
Good thief, who darest, Prometheus-like, aspire,
And fill thy poems with celestial fire:
Enliven'd by these sparks divine, their rays
Add a bright lustre to thy crown of bays,
Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook,
So lofty and divine a course hast took,
As all admire, before the down begin
To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother chin ;
And making Heaven thy aim, hast had the grace
To look the sun of righteousness i' the' face.
What may we hope, if thou go'st on thus fast!
Scriptures at first, enthusiasms at last!
1 These were entitled 'Sion and Parnassus; or Epigrams on several Texts of the Old and New Testament,' and published in 1650; when Dryden was at Trinity College.
Thou hast commenced, betimes, a saint: go on,
Mingling diviner streams with Helicon,
That they who view what Epigrams here be,
May learn to make like, in just praise of thee.-
Reader, L'ave done, nor longer will withhold
Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold
Thou 'It know adulterate copper, which, like this,
Will only serve to be a foil to his.
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND
SIR ROBERT HOWARD,
ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.
As there is music, uninform'd by art,
In those wild notes, which with a merry heart
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less;
So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep,
Such is your Muse: no metaphor swell'd high,
With dangerous boldness, lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
"Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your art hides art, as stoics feign
Then least to feel when most they suffer pain,
And, we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be;
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of Wit.
'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier Odes, which for delight were penned,
Yet our instruction make their second end:
We're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that woo
At once a beauty and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge Poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been,
Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge:
Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exil'd to her crown again;
And gives us hope that, having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
A sober prince's government is best.'
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make the' improvement of the richest ground;
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove, had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has discharged those,
Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of Peace.
But if Æneas be obliged, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;
Who, dress'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin-robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view;
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff;
His colours laid so thick on every place,
As only show'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties see,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our sight obligingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty only makes:
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks disguised,
More for their dressing, than their substance, prized.
Your curious notes so search into that age,
When all was fable but the Sacred page,
That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break.
So skilful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.
To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love,
As still the ancients did begin from Jove. [be;
With Monk you end, whose name preserved shall
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's interest, than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen:
You let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture, in your right, to prophesy :
This work, by merit first of fame secure,
Is likewise happy in its geniture:
For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,
It shares, at once, his fortune, and its own.'
PRESENTED ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY,
WHILE flattering crowds officiously appear,
To give themselves, not you, an happy year;
And by the greatness of their presents prove
How much they hope, but not how well they love;
The Muses, who your early courtship boast,
Though now your flames are with their beauty lost,
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