by Paul Keegan
And thus, when Charles Return’d, our Empire stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn Soil manur’d,
With Rules of Husbandry the rankness cur’d:
Tam’d us to manners, when the Stage was rude;
And boistrous English Wit, with Art indu’d.
Our Age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gain’d in skill we lost in strength.
Our Builders were, with want of Genius, curst;
The second Temple was not like the first:
Till You, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
Our Beauties equal; but excel our strength.
Firm Dorique Pillars found Your solid Base:
The Fair Corinthian Crowns the higher Space;
Thus all below is Strength, and all above is Grace.
In easie Dialogue is Fletcher’s Praise:
He mov’d the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Johnson did by strength of Judgment please:
Yet doubling Fletcher’s Force, he wants his Ease.
In differing Tallents both adorn’d their Age;
One for the Study, t’other for the Stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One match’d in Judgment, both o’er-match’d in Wit.
In Him all Beauties of this Age we see;
Etherege his Courtship, Southern’s Purity;
The Satire, Wit, and Strength of Manly Witcherly.
All this in blooming Youth you have Atchiev’d;
Nor are your foil’d Contemporaries griev’d;
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you because we Love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A Beardless Consul made against the Law,
And joyn his Suffrage to the Votes of Rome;
Though He with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow’d to Raphel’s Fame;
And Scholar to the Youth he taught, became.
Oh that your Brows my Lawrel had sustain’d,
Well had I been Depos’d, if You had reign’d!
The Father had descended for the Son;
For only You are lineal to the Throne.
Thus when the State one Edward did depose;
A Greater Edward in his room arose.
But now, not I, but Poetry is curs’d;
For Tom the Second reigns like Tom the first.
But let ’em not mistake my Patron’s part;
Nor call his Charity their own desert.
Yet this I Prophesy; Thou shalt be seen,
(Tho’ with some short Parenthesis between:)
High on the Throne of Wit; and seated there,
Not mine (that’s little) but thy Lawrel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That Your least Praise, is to be Regular.
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;
Heav’n that but once was Prodigal before,
To Shakespeare gave as much; she cou’d not give him more.
Maintain Your Post: That’s all the Fame You need;
For ’tis impossible you shou’d proceed.
Already I am worn with Cares and Age;
And just abandoning th’ Ungrateful Stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heav’ns expence,
I live a Rent-charge on his Providence:
But You, whom ev’ry Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better Fortune born,
Be kind to my Remains; and oh defend,
Against Your Judgment, 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 cou’d my Love do less.
1697
JOHN DRYDEN from Virgil’s Aeneis
from The Second Book [The Death of Priam]
Perhaps you may of Priam’s Fate enquire.
He, when he saw his Regal Town on fire,
His ruin’d Palace, and his ent’ring Foes,
On ev’ry side inevitable woes;
In Arms, disus’d, invests his Limbs decay’d
Like them, with Age; a late and useless aid.
His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain:
Loaded, not arm’d, he creeps along, with pain;
Despairing of Success; ambitious to be slain!
Uncover’d but by Heav’n, there stood in view
An Altar; near the hearth a Lawrel grew;
Dodder’d with Age, whose Boughs encompass round
The Household Gods, and shade the holy Ground.
Here Hecuba, with all her helpless Train
Of Dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain.
Driv’n like a Flock of Doves along the skie,
Their Images they hugg, and to their Altars fly.
The Queen, when she beheld her trembling Lord,
And hanging by his side a heavy Sword,
What Rage, she cry’d, has seiz’d my Husband’s mind;
What Arms are these, and to what use design’d?
These times want other aids: were Hector here,
Ev’n Hector now in vain, like Priam wou’d appear.
With us, one common shelter thou shalt find,
Or in one common Fate with us be join’d.
She said, and with a last Salute embrac’d
The poor old Man, and by the Lawrel plac’d.
Behold Polites, one of Priam’s Sons,
Pursu’d by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs.
Thro Swords, and Foes, amaz’d and hurt, he flies
Through empty Courts, and open Galleries:
Him Pyrrhus, urging with his Lance, pursues;
And often reaches, and his thrusts renews.
The Youth transfix’d, with lamentable Cries
Expires, before his wretched Parent’s Eyes.
Whom, gasping at his feet, when Priam saw,
The Fear of Death gave place to Nature’s Law.
And shaking more with Anger, than with Age,
The Gods, said He, requite thy brutal Rage:
As sure they will, Barbarian, sure they must,
If there be Gods in Heav’n, and Gods be just:
Who tak’st in Wrongs an insolent delight;
With a Son’s death t’ infect a Father’s sight.
Not He, whom thou and lying Fame conspire
To call thee his; Nor He, thy vaunted Sire,
Thus us’d my wretched Age: The Gods he fear’d,
The Laws of Nature and of Nations heard.
He chear’d my Sorrows, and for Sums of Gold
The bloodless Carcass of my Hector sold.
Pity’d the Woes a Parent underwent,
And sent me back in safety from his Tent.
This said, his feeble hand a Javelin threw,
Which flutt’ring, seem’d to loiter as it flew:
Just, and but barely, to the Mark it held,
And faintly tinckl’d on the Brazen Shield.
Then Pyrrhus thus: Go thou from me to Fate;
And to my Father my foul deeds relate.
Now dye: with that he dragg’d the trembling Sire,
Slidd’ring through clotter’d Blood, and holy Mire,
(The mingl’d Paste his murder’d Son had made,)
Haul’d from beneath the violated Shade;
And on the Sacred Pile, the Royal Victim laid.
His right Hand held his bloody Fauchion bare;
His left he twisted in his hoary Hair:
Then, with a speeding Thrust, his Heart he found:
The lukewarm Blood came rushing through the Wound,
Thus Priam fell: and shar’d one common Fate
With Troy in Ashes, and his ruin’d State:
He, who the Scepter of all Asia sway’d,
Whom Monarchs like Domestick Slaves obey’d,
On the bleak Shoar now lies th’ abandon’d King,
1A headless Carcass, and a nameless thing.
from The Fourth Book [Fame]
The loud Report through Lybian Cities goes;
Fame, the great Ill, from small beginnings grows.
Swift from the first; and ev’ry Moment brings
New Vigour to her flights, new Pinions to her wings.
Soon grows the Pygmee to Gygantic size;
Her Feet on Earth, her Forehead in the Skies:
Inrag’d against the Gods, revengeful Earth
Produc’d her last of the Titanian birth.
Swift is her walk, more swift her winged hast:
A monstrous Fantom, horrible and vast;
As many Plumes as raise her lofty flight,
So many piercing Eyes inlarge her sight:
Millions of opening Mouths to Fame belong;
And ev’ry Mouth is furnish’d with a Tongue:
And round with listning Ears the flying Plague is hung.
She fills the peaceful Universe with Cries;
No Slumbers ever close her wakeful Eyes.
By Day from lofty Tow’rs her Head she shews;
And spreads through trembling Crowds disastrous News.
With Court Informers haunts, and Royal Spyes,
Things done relates, not done she feigns; and mingles Truth with Lyes.
Talk is her business; and her chief delight
To tell of Prodigies, and cause affright.
from The Sixth Book [Charon]
Hence to deep Acheron they take their way;
Whose troubled Eddies, thick with Ooze and Clay,
Are whirl’d aloft, and in Cocytus lost:
There Charon stands, who rules the dreary Coast:
A sordid God; down from his hoary Chin
A length of Beard descends; uncomb’d, unclean:
His Eyes, like hollow Furnaces on Fire:
A Girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene Attire.
He spreads his Canvas, with his Pole he steers;
The Freights of flitting Ghosts in his thin Bottom bears.
He look’d in Years; yet in his Years were seen
A youthful Vigour, and Autumnal green.
An Airy Crowd came rushing where he stood;
Which fill’d the Margin of the fatal Flood.
Husbands and Wives, Boys and unmarry’d Maids;
And mighty Heroes more Majestick Shades.
And Youths, intomb’d before their Fathers Eyes,
With hollow Groans, and Shrieks, and feeble Cries:
Thick as the Leaves in Autumn strow the Woods:
Or Fowls, by Winter forc’d, forsake the Floods,
And wing their hasty flight to happier Lands:
Such, and so thick, the shiv’ring Army stands:
And press for passage with extended hands.
1700
JOHN DRYDEN Of the Pythagorean Philosophy, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book Fifteen
Time was, when we were sow’d, and just began
From some few fruitful Drops, the promise of a Man;
Then Nature’s Hand (fermented as it was)
Moulded to Shape the soft, coagulated Mass;
And when the little Man was fully form’d,
The breathless Embryo with a Spirit warm’d;
But when the Mothers Throws begin to come,
The Creature, pent within the narrow Room,
Breaks his blind Prison, pushing to repair
His stiffled Breath, and draw the living Air;
Cast on the Margin of the World he lies,
A helpless Babe, but by Instinct he cries.
He next essays to walk, but downward press’d
On four Feet imitates his Brother Beast:
By slow degrees he gathers from the Ground
His Legs, and to the rowling Chair is bound;
Then walks alone; a Horseman now become
He rides a Stick, and travels round the Room:
In time he vaunts among his youthful Peers,
Strong-bon’d, and strung with Nerves, in pride of Years,
He runs with Mettle his first merry Stage,
Maintains the next abated of his Rage,
But manages his Strength, and spares his Age.
Heavy the third, and stiff, he sinks apace,
And tho’ ’tis down-hill all, but creeps along the Race.
Now sapless on the verge of Death he stands,
Contemplating his former Feet, and Hands;
And Milo-like, his slacken’d Sinews sees,
And wither’d Arms, once fit to cope with Hercules,
Unable now to shake, much less to tear the Trees.
So Helen wept when her too faithful Glass
Reflected to her Eyes the ruins of her Face:
Wondring what Charms her Ravishers cou’d spy,
To force her twice, or ev’n but once enjoy!
Thy Teeth, devouring Time, thine, envious Age,
On Things below still exercise your Rage:
With venom’d Grinders you corrupt your Meat,
And then at lingring Meals, the Morsels eat.
(… )
All Things are alter’d, nothing is destroy’d,
The shifted Scene, for some new Show employ’d.
Then to be born, is to begin to be
Some other Thing we were not formerly:
And what we call to Die, is not t’ appear,
Or be the Thing that formerly we were.
Those very Elements which we partake,
Alive, when Dead some other Bodies make:
Translated grow, have Sense, or can Discourse,
But Death on deathless Substance has no force.
That Forms are chang’d I grant; that nothing can
Continue in the Figure it began:
The Golden Age, to Silver was debas’d:
To Copper that; our Mettal came at last.
The Face of Places, and their Forms decay;
And that is solid Earth, that once was Sea:
Seas in their turn retreating from the Shore,
Make solid Land, what Ocean was before;
And far from Strands are Shells of Fishes found,
And rusty Anchors fix’d on Mountain-Ground:
And what were Fields before, now wash’d and worn
By falling Floods from high, to Valleys turn,
And crumbling still descend to level Lands;
And Lakes, and trembling Bogs are barren Sands:
