TO THE READER.
1720-1, March.
It is now almost fourteen years since these lines were first written; and as I had no thought of making them public, I laid them aside among other papers; where they had still continued private, if it had not, in a manner, become my duty to print them, by the noble regard which is paid to Mr Dryden’s memory, by his grace the Duke of Buckingham, who, to his high quality, has added the liberal distinction of having long been at once both an eminent patron of elegant literature, and the most accomplished judge and pattern of it.
It might indeed seem an adventurous presumption to offer so trivial a poem to his Grace’s view; but he who is able to instruct the most skilful writer, will have benevolence enough to forgive the imperfections of the weakest, and to consider the inscribing these slight verses to his Grace, merely as a respectful acknowledgment of the common obligation he has laid upon all who have a true value for English poetry, by thus honouring the remains of a man who advanced it so highly, and is so justly celebrated for beauty of imagination, and force and delicacy of expression and numbers.
I must also observe, that I have had the happiness to see one part of these verses abundantly disproved by Mr Pope, and accordingly I retract it with pleasure; for that admirable author, who evidently inherits the bright invention, and the harmonious versification of Mr Dryden, has increased the reputation his other ingenious writings had obtained him, by the permanent fame of having finished a translation of the Iliad of Homer, with surprising genius and merit.
UPON READING
MR DRYDEN’S FABLES.
Our great forefathers, in poetic song,
Were rude in diction, though their sense was strong;
Well-measured verse they knew not how to frame,
Their words ungraceful, and the cadence lame.
Too far they wildly ranged to start the prey,
And did too much of Fairy-land display;
And in their rugged dissonance of lines,
True manly thought debased with trifles shines.
Each gaudy flower that wantons on the mead,
Must not appear within the curious bed;
But nature’s chosen birth should flourish there,
And with their beauties crown the sweet parterre.
Such was the scene, when Dryden came to found
More perfect lays, with harmony of sound:
What lively colours glow on every draught!
How bright his images, how raised his thought!
The parts proportioned to their proper place,
With strength supported, and adorned with grace.
With what perfection did his artful hand
The various kinds of poesy command!
And the whole choir of Muses at his call,
In his rich song, which was inspired of all,
Spoke from the chords of his enchanting lyre,
And gave his breast the fulness of their fire.
As while the sun displays his lordly light,
The host of stars are humbly veiled from sight,
Till when he falls, they kindle all on high,
And smartly sparkle in the nightly sky:
His fellow bards suspended thus their ray,
Drowned in the strong effulgence of his day;
But glowing to their rise, at his decline,
Each cast his beams, and each began to shine.
As years advance, the abated soul, in most,
Sinks to low ebb, in second childhood lost;
And spoiling age, dishonouring our kind,
Robs all the treasures of the wasted mind;
With hovering clouds obscures the muffled sight,
And dim suffusion of enduring night:
But the rich fervour of his rising rage,
Prevailed o’er all the infirmities of age;
And, unimpaired by injuries of time,
Enjoyed the bloom of a perpetual prime.
His fire not less, he more correctly writ,
With ripened judgment, and digested wit;
When the luxuriant ardour of his youth,
Succeeding years had tamed to better growth,
And seemed to break the body’s crust away,
To give the expanded mind more room to play;
Which, in its evening, opened on the sight,
Surprising beams of full meridian light;
As thrifty of its splendour it had been,
And all its lustre had reserved till then.
So the descending sun, which hid his ray
In mists before, diminishing the day,
Breaks radiant out upon the dazzled eye,
And in a blaze of glory leaves the sky.
Revolving time had injured Chaucer’s name,
And dimmed the brilliant lustre of his fame;
Deformed his language, and his wit depressed,
His serious sense oft sinking to a jest;
Almost a stranger even to British eyes,
We scarcely knew him in the rude disguise:
But, clothed by thee, the burnished bard appears
In all his glory, and new honours wears.
Thus Ennius was by Virgil changed of old;
He found him rubbish, and he left him gold.
Who but thyself could Homer’s weight sustain,
And match the voice of his majestic strain;
When Phœbus’ wrath the sovereign poet sings,
And the big passion of contending kings!
No tender pinions of a gentle muse,
Who little points in epigram pursues,
And, with a short excursion, meekly plays
Its fluttering wings in mean enervate lays,
Could make a flight like this; to reach the skies,
An eagle’s vigour can alone suffice.
In every part the courtly Ovid’s style,
Thy various versions beautifully foil.
Here smoothly turned melodious measures move,
And feed the flame, and multiply the love:
So sweet they flow, so touch the heaving heart,
They teach the doctor[217] in his boasted art.
But when the theme demands a manly tone,
Sublime he speaks in accents not his own.
The bristly boar, and the tremendous rage,
When the fell Centaurs in the fight engage;
The cruel storm where Ceyx lost his life,
And the deep sorrows of his widowed wife;
The covered cavern, and the still abode
Of empty visions, and the Sleepy God;
The powers of nature, in her wonderous reign,
Old forms subverting, to produce again,
And mould the mass anew, the important verse
Does with such dignity of words rehearse,
That Virgil, proud of unexampled fame,
Looks with concern, and fears a rival name.
What vaunting Grecians, of their knowledge vain,
In lying legends insolently feign
Of magic verses, whose persuasive charm
Appeased the soul with glowing passion warm;
Then discomposed the calm, and changed the scene,
And with the height of madness vexed again,—
Thou hast accomplished in thy wondrous song,[218]
With utmost energy of numbers strong.
A flow of rage comes hurrying on amain,
And now the refluent tide ebbs out again;
A quiet pause succeeds; when unconfined
It rushes back, and swells upon the mind.
The inimitable lay, through all the maze
Of harmony’s sweet labyrinth, displays
The power of music, and Cecilia’s praise.
At first it lifts the flattered monarch high,
With boasted lineage, to his kindred sky;
Then to the pleasures of the flowing bowl,
And mellow mirth, unbends his easy soul;
And humbles now, and saddens all the feast,
With sense of human miseries expressed;
Relenting pity in each face appears,
And heavy sorrow ripens into tears.
Grief is forbid; and see! in every eye
The gaiety of love, and wanton joy!
Soft smiles and airs, which tenderly inspire
Delightful hope, and languishing desire.
But lo! the pealing verse provokes around
The frown of rage, and kindles with the sound;
Behold the low’ring storm at once arise,
And ardent vengeance sparkling in their eyes;
Fury boils high, and zeal of fell debate,
Demanding ruin, and denouncing fate.
Ye British beauties, in whose finished face
Smile the gay honours of each bloomy grace;
Whose forms, inimitably fair, invite
The sighing heart, and cheer the ravished sight,
Say, what sweet transports, and complacent joy,
Rise in your bosoms, and your soul employ,
When royal Emily, the tuneful bard
Paints in his song, and makes the rich reward
Of knightly arms, in costly lists arrayed,
The world at once contending for the maid.
How nobly great does Sigismonda shine,
With constant faith, and courage masculine!
No menaces could bend her mind to fear,
But for her love she dies without a tear.
There Iphigenia, with her radiant eyes,
As the bright sun, illuminates the skies;
In clouded Cymon chearful day began,
Awaked the sleeping soul, and charmed him into man.
The pleasing legends, to your honour, prove
The power of beauty, and the force of love.
Who, after him, can equally rehearse
Such various subjects, in such various verse?
And with the raptures of his strain controul,
At will, each passion, and command the soul?
Not ancient Orpheus, whose surprising lyre
Did beasts, and rocks, and rooted woods, inspire,
More sweetly sung, nor with superior art
Soothed the sad shades, and softened Pluto’s heart.
All owned, at distance, his distinguished name,
Nor vainly vied to share his awful fame;
Unrivalled, living, he enlarged his praise,
And, dying, left without an heir his bays.
So Philip’s son his universal reign
Extended amply over earth and main;
Through conquered climes with ready triumph rode,
And ruled the nations with his powerful nod;
But when fate called the mighty chief away,
None could succeed to his imperial sway,
And his wide empire languished to decay.
No. IX.
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? Precipe lugubres
Cantus Melpomene——
Quando ullam inveniam parem!
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit.
Horat. Lib. i. Ode 25.
By ALEXANDER OLDYS.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR JAMES DIXON.
Sir, 1700, 22d June.
The many and great obligations which you have been pleased to lay on me, give me the greatest confusion imaginable at present, when I consider that I am suing for a greater favour than all, in having the liberty to prefix your name to these lines; which though I am sensible they will be condemned 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 become my patron: so your nicer sense cannot be accountable in the least; for you had no hand in it, and you may plead
——Quæ 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 terror upon my conscience for this aggression, as is, I think, a punishment in some measure equal to any 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 provoked, or, let me rather say, obliged me to expose myself on this occasion. I never attempted any thing in this measure for the public 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 judgment is still more dreadful than all, by
Worthy Sir, Your most obliged obedient and humble servant, Alexander Oldys.