To dust must all that Heavenly beauty come?
And must Pastora moulder in the tomb?
Ah Death! more fierce and unrelenting far,
Than wildest wolves and savage tigers are;
With lambs and sheep their hunger is appeased,
But ravenous Death the shepherdess has seized.
This statement that a wolf eats but a sheep, whilst Death eats a shepherdess; that figure of the “Great Shepherd”, lying speechless on his stomach, in a state of despair which neither winds nor floods nor air can exhibit, are to be remembered in poetry surely, and this style was admired in its time by the admirers of the great Congreve!
In the “Tears of Amaryllis for Amyntas” (the young Lord Blandford, the great Duke of Marlborough's only son), Amaryllis represents Sarah Duchess!
The tigers and wolves, nature and motion, rivers and echoes, come into work here again. At the sight of her grief—
Tigers and wolves their wonted rage forgo,
And dumb distress and new compassion show,
Nature herself attentive silence kept,
And motion seemed suspended while she wept!
And Pope dedicated the Iliad to the author of these lines—and Dryden wrote to him in his great hand:
Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,
But Genius must be born and never can be taught.
This is your portion, this your native store;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much, she could not give him more.
Maintain your Post: that's all the fame you need,
For 'tis impossible you should proceed;
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expence,
I live a Rent-charge upon Providence:
But you whom every Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains, and oh defend
Against your Judgement your departed Friend!
Let not the insulting Foe my Fame pursue;
But shade those Lawrels which descend to You:
And take for Tribute what these Lines express;
You merit more, nor could my Love do less.
This is a very different manner of welcome to that of our own day. In Shadwell, Higgons, Congreve, and the comic authors of their time, when gentlemen meet they fall into each other's arms, with “Jack, Jack, I must buss thee”; or, “'Fore George, Harry, I must kiss thee, lad”. And in a similar manner the poets saluted their brethren. Literary gentlemen do not kiss now; I wonder if they love each other better.
Steele calls Congreve “Great Sir” and “Great Author”; says “Well-dressed barbarians knew his awful name”, and addresses him as if he were a prince; and speaks of Pastora as one of the most famous tragic compositions.
“To Addison himself we are bound by a sentiment as much like affection as any sentiment can be which is inspired by one who has been sleeping a hundred and twenty years in Westminster Abbey.... After full inquiry and impartial reflection we have long been convinced that he deserved as much love and esteem as can justly be claimed by any of our infirm and erring race.”—Macaulay.