Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, immortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich foil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for ufe, for luxury, and pride,
Yet fpreads her wanton fails on every fhore
For foreign wealth, infatiate ftill of more;
To her own wool the filks of Afia 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 fends forth his learned mufe,
The robleft feeds of foreign wit to choose:
Fe.g our fense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy bounty, or thy thirit of praise?
That, by comparing others, all might fee
Who most excel, are yet excell'd by thee.

TO MR. DRYDEN,

BY

JOSEPH ADDISON, Esq.

OW long, great poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder and tranfcend our praife!

Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat and quench thy rage?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote;

Grief chill'd his breaft, and checked his rifing thought;|
Penfive and fad, his drooping muse betrays
The Roman genius in its laft decays.

Prevailing warmth has fill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breaft.

Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans krown,
And England boafts of riches rot her own:
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our fle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer ftyle:
And Juvenal, inftru&ed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light or all,
And fill outfhines the bright original.

TROM

ADDISON'S ACCOUNT

OF THE

ENGLISH POET S.

UT fee where artful Dryden next appears,

B&

Now Ovid boafts th' advantage of thy fong,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe and fair tranflations fhow
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry Gods,
And frighted at himfelf, ran howling thro' the woods.
O may'st thou ftill the roble tale prolong,
Nor age, nor fickness interrupt thy fong:
Then may we wordering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams,
Of thofe rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by deg ees, and ripen'd into gold :
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide
Have liv'd a fecond 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.

Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful mufe affords
The fweeteft numbers and the fittest words.
Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,

She forms her voice, the moves our fmiles and tears,
If fatire or heroic ftrains the writes,

Her hero pleafes, and her fatire bites.
From her no harth unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreifes, and the charms in all:
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee:
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear!
Congreve ! whole fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve fhall full preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe thall in his friend furvive.

CHARACTER OF DRYDEN,

FROM AN ODE OF GRAY.

EHOLD, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car,

B Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two courfers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding

pace.

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 fupreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Mufe's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the fun:
Yet fhall he mount, and keep his diftant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate

Th' inspiring fun 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 heighth our poet fought,
(His ravifh'd mind with vaft ideas fraught)
Our language fail'd beneath his rifing thought.
This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines
He drains of all their gold, t' adorn his lines:

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great. Through each of which the Mantuan genius shines.,

То

THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR

OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.

AKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,

Tour theme is vaft, your verfe divinely good:
Where, though the Nine their beauteous ftrokes
repeat,

And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat,
It looks as if they ftrook them at a heat.
So all ferenely great, fo juft refin'd
Like angels love to human feed inclin'd,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis fpirit feen, whofe fiery atoms roll,
So brightly fierce, each fyllable 's a foul.
"Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;

chofe.

'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art ;
To whom even the fanaticks altars raife,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arofe,
Fil'd off the ruft, and the right party
Nor, Sir, be fhock'd at what the gloomy fay;
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 Ifrael's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd.
The beauties of your Abfalom excel:

But more the charms of charming Annabel:

Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,

Chearful as fummer's noon, and chafte as winter's!

The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breaft diffolv'd into a tide:
Thus on our ftubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he fails;
The dialect, as well as fenfe, invents,
And, with his pocm, a new fpeech prefents.
Hail, then, thou matchlefs Bard, thou great un-

In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;

Yet by one ftab of your keen satire dies;
Before your facred lines their shatter'd Dagon lies.

Oh! if unworthy we appear to know
The fire, to whom this lovely birth we owe:
Deny'd our ready homage to express,
And can at beft but thankful be by guefs;
This hope remains: May David's godlike mind
(For him was wrote) the unknown author find;
And, having found, fho ver equal favours down
On wit fo vaft, as could oblige a crown

UPON

N. TATE.

THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDAL.

Ο

NCE more our awful poet arms, t' engage
The threatening hydra faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Mufe attends him to the field.
Py art and nature for this task defign'd,
Yet modeftly the fight he long declin'd;
Forbore the torrent of his verfe to pour,
Nor loos'd his fatire till the needful hour.
His fovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.

Bleft Mufe, whofe wit with fuch a caufe was crown'd,
And bleft the caufe that fuch a champion found!
With chofen verfe upon the foe he falls,
And black fedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with fubjects forc'd t' engage,
Secure of conqueft he rebates his rage;
His fury not without diftinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To lefs-infected members gentle found,
Or fpares, or elfe pours balm into the wound.

Firm, as fair Albion, midft the raging main,
Surveys incircling danger with difdain.
In vain the waves affault the unmov'd shore,
In vain the winds with mingled fury roar,
Fair Albion's beauteous cliffs shine whiter than
before.

Nor fhalt thou move, though hell thy fall confpire,
Though the wo fe rage of zeal's fanatic fire;
Thou beft, thou greateft of the British race,
Thou only fit to fill great Charles's place.

Ah, wretched Britons! ah, too ftubborn ifle!
Ah, fiff-neck'd Ifrael or bleft Canaan's foil!
Are thofe dear proofs of heaven's indulgence vain,
Reftoring David and his gentle reign?

is it in vain thou all the goods dost know,
Aufpicious ftars on mortals thed below,
While all thy ftreams with milk, thy lands with
honey flow?

No more, fond ifle! no more thyfelf engage
THE MEDAL; In civil fury, and inteftine rage:

But when thy Goddefs takes her flight, With fo much majefty to fuch a height, As can alone fuffice to prove, That the defcends from mighty Jove: ex-Gods! how thy thoughts then rife, and foar, and shine!

DRYDEN'S ORIGINAL POEMS.

Whofe regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' fphere, the heavens did fhew.
Graces and virtues, languages, and arts,
all the parts.
Beauty and learning, fill'd up
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling ftars appear
Scatter'd in others; all as in their sphere,
Were fix'd conglobate in his foul; and thence
Shone through his body, with fweet influence;
Letting their glories fo on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celestial.
Come, learn'd Ptolemy, and trial make,
If thou this hero's altitude canft take:
But that tranfcends thy skill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus aftronomical.

Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which fhone
More bright i' th' morn, than others beam at noon,
He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here
What new ftar 'twas did gild our hemifphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as thefe,
Where was room left for fuch a foul difeafe?

The nation's fin hath drawn that veil which fhrouds
Our day-fpring in fo 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,
The very filthinefs of Pandora's box?

So many fpots, like næves on Venus' foil,
One jewel fet off with fo many a foil;

Blifters with pride fwell'd, which through's fiefh
did fprout

Like rofe-buds, stuck i' th' lily skin about,
Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rifing did commit:
Which rebel-like, with its own lord at ftrife;
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life,
Or were these gems fent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might seem a conftellation,
O! had he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife

Had been, who from his death fhould draw their
life?

Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæfar, were?
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An univerfal metempsychofis.
Muft all these aged fires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one fo young, fo fmall?
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, fummer, fpring, 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-leg'd grey-beards with their
gout,

Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three long ages out?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!
O to hang antiquaries rooms withal!
Muft drunkards, lechers spent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but fuchfhould die? fhall we meet
With none but ghoftly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And showers of tears tempeftuous fighs beft lay.
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting ftreams of elegies.

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravifhed spouse is gone,
Whofe fkiitul fire in vain ftrove to apply
Medicines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than Platonic love, O wed
His foul, though not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Tranfcribe th' original in new copies; give
Haftings o' th' better part; fo fhail he live
In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An iffue, which t' eternity fhall last,
Yet but th' irradiations which he caft.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

HEROIC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF

OLIVER CROMWELL.

A

WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL.

1.

ND now 'tis time; for their officious hafte,

Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eater Romans, ere all rites were past,
Did let too foon the facred eagle fly,

11.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applaufe of public voice;
Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

III.

Though in his praife no arts can liberal be,

Since they whofe Muses have the highest flown, Add not to his immortal memory,

But do an act of friendfhip to their own:

IV.

Yet 'tis our duty, and our intereft too,

Such monuments as we can build to raise; Left all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a title in him by their praise.

V.

How fhall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame fo truly circular;
For in a round what order can be fhew'd,
Where all the parts fo equal perfect are?

VI.

His grandeur he deriv'd from heaven alone;
For he was great ere fortune made him fo:
And wars, like mifts that rise against the sun
Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

VII.

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,

But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poifon'd foon as born, With the too early thoughts of being king.