No. XII.
SOME ACCOUNT
OF
THE NINE MUSES;
Or, Poems written by nine several Ladies, upon the death of the late famous John Dryden, Esq.
As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky,
So shall this verse preserve thy memory;
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.
London: printed for Richard Basset, at the Mitre, in Fleet Street, 1700.
The work is dedicated to the Right Hon. Charles Montague, (Lord Halifax,) by the publisher Basset, who thus apologizes for the intrusion:
“The ladies indeed themselves might have had a better plea for your reception; but since the modesty which is natural to the sex they are of, will not suffer them to do that violence to their tempers, I think myself obliged to make a present of what is written in honour of the most consummate poet among our English dead, to the most distinguished among the living. You have been pleased already to shew your respect to his memory, in contributing so largely to his burial, notwithstanding he had that unhappiness of conduct, when alive, to give you cause to disclaim the protection of him.”
The dedication is followed by a commendatory copy of verses, addressed to the publisher, and signed Philomusus; of which most readers will think the following lines a sufficient specimen:
Hence issues forth a most delightful song,
Fair as their sex, and as their judgment strong;
Moving its force, and tempting in its ease;
Secured of fame, unknowing to displease;
Its every word like Aganippe, clear,
And close its meaning, and its sense severe:
As virtuous thoughts with chaste expression join,
And make them truly, what they feign, divine.
The poems of these divine ladies, as their eulogist phrases them, appear in the following order:
Melpomene, the Tragic Muse, personated by Mrs Manley, refers to his elegies and tragedies. Melpomene sorrows for him:
Who sorrowed Killigrew’s untimely fall,
And more than Roman made her funeral;
Inspired by me, for me he could command,
Bright Abingdon’s rich monument shall stand
For evermore the wonder of the land;
Oldham he snatched from an ignoble fate,
Changed his cross star for one more fortunate;
For who would not with pride resign his breath,
To be so loved, to be so blest in death?