by John Dryden
Descriptas servare vices, operumque colores,
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, Poeta salutor?
For my own part, if I had little knowledge of the Sea, yet I have thought it no shame to learn: and if I have made some few mistakes, ’tis only, as you can bear me witness, because I have wanted opportunity to correct them; the whole Poem being first written, and now sent you from a place where I have not so much as the converse of any Sea-man. Yet though the trouble I had in writing it was great, it was more than recompens’d by the pleasure; I found myself so warm in celebrating the Praises of Military men, two such especially as the Prince and General, that it is no wonder if they inspired me with thoughts above my ordinary level. And I am well satisfied, that as they are incomparably the best subject I have ever had, excepting only the Royal Family, so also that this I have written of them is much better than what I have performed on any other. I have been forc’d to help out other Arguments; but this has been bountiful to me: they have been low and barren of praise, and I have exalted them and made them fruitful: but here — Omnia sponte suâ reddit justissima tellus. I have had a large, a fair, and a pleasant field; so fertile, that, without my cultivating, it has given me two Harvests in a Summer, and in both oppressed the reaper. All other greatness in Subjects is only counter-feit, it will not endure the test of danger; the greatness of arms is only real: other greatness burdens a Nation with its weight, this supports it with its strength. And as it is the happiness of the Age, so is it the peculiar goodness of the best of Kings, that we may praise his Subjects without offending him: Doubtless it proceeds from a just confidence of his own Virtue, which the lustre of no other can be so great as to darken in him; for the Good or the Valiant are never safely praised under a bad or a degenerate Prince. But to return from this digression to a farther account of my Poem, I must crave leave to tell you, that, as I have endeavoured to adorn it with noble thoughts, so much more to express those thoughts with elocution. The Composition of all Poems is or ought to be of wit; and wit in the Poet, or wit writing (if you will give me leave to use a School distinction), is no other than the faculty of imagination in the Writer; which, like a nimble Spaniel, beats over and ranges through the field of Memory, till it springs the Quarry it hunted after; or, without metaphor, which searches over all the Memory for the Species or Ideas of those things which it designs to represent. Wit written, is that which is well defin’d, the happy result of Thought, or product of Imagination. But to proceed from wit in the general notion of it to the proper wit of an Heroique or Historical Poem; I judge it chiefly to consist in the delightful imaging of Persons, Actions, Passions, or Things. ’Tis not the jerk or sting of an Epigram, nor the seeming contradiction of a poor Antithesis (the delight of an ill-judging Audience in a Play of Rhyme), nor the gingle of a more poor Paranomasia; neither is it so much the morality of a grave Sentence, affected by Lucan, but more sparingly used by Virgil; but it is some lively and apt description, dressed in such colours of speech, that it sets before your eyes the absent object, as perfectly and more delightfully than nature. So then, the first happiness of the Poet’s Imagination is properly Invention, or finding of the thought; the second is Fancy, or the variation, deriving or moulding of that thought as the Judgment represents it proper to the subject; the third is Elocution, or the Art of clothing and adorning that thought so found and varied, in apt, significant and sounding words: The quickness of the Imagination is seen in the Invention, the fertility in the Fancy, and the accuracy in the Expression. For the two first of these, Ovid is famous amongst the poets, for the later Virgil. Ovid images more often the movements and affections of the mind, either combating between two contrary passions, or extreamly discompos’d by one: his words therefore are the least part of his care; for he pictures Nature in disorder, with which the study and choice of words is inconsistent. This is the proper wit of Dialogue or Discourse, and, consequently, of the Drama, where all that is said is to be suppos’d the effect of sudden thought; which, though it excludes not the quickness of Wit in repartees, yet admits not a too curious election of words, too frequent allusions, or use of Tropes, or, in fine, anything that shows remoteness of thought, or labour, in the Writer. On the other side, Virgil speaks not so often to us in the person of another, like Ovid, but in his own, he relates almost all things as from himself, and thereby gains more liberty than the other, to express his thoughts with all the graces of elocution, to write more figuratively, and to confess as well the labour as the force of his Imagination. Though he describes his Dido well and naturally, in the violence of her Passions, yet he must yield in that to the Myrrha, the Biblis, the Althæa of Ovid; for as great an admirer of him as I am, I must acknowledge that, if I see not more of their souls than I see of Dido’s, at least I have a greater concernment for them: And that convinces me that Ovid has touched those tender strokes more delicately than Virgil could. But when Action or Persons are to be described, when any such Image is to be set before us, how bold, how masterly are the strokes of Virgil! We see the objects he represents us within their native figures, in their proper motions; but so we see them, as our own eyes could never have beheld them, so beautiful in themselves. We see the Soul of the Poet, like that universal one of which he speaks, informing and moving through all his Pictures, Totamque infusa per artus Mens agitat molem et magno se corpore miscet; we behold him embellishing his Images, as he makes Venus breathing beauty upon her son Æneas.
lumenque juventæ
Purpureum, et lætos oculis afflârat honores:
Quale manus addunt Ebori decus, aut ubi flavo
Argentum, Pariusve lapis circundatur auro.
See his Tempest, his Funeral Sports, his Combat of Turnus and Æneas, and in his Georgicks, which I esteem the Divinest part of all his writings, the Plague, the Country, the Battel of Bulls, the labour of the Bees, and those many other excellent Images of Nature, most of which are neither great in themselves nor have any natural ornament to bear them up: But the words wherewith he describes them are so excellent, that it might be well appli’d to him which was said by Ovid, Materiam superabat opus: The very Sound of his Words has often somewhat that is connatural to the subject; and, while we read him, we sit, as in a Play, beholding the Scenes of what he represents. To perform this, he made frequent use of Tropes, which you know change the nature of a known word, by applying it to some other signification; and this is it which Horace means in his Epistle to the Pisos:
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum
Reddiderit junctura novum.
But I am sensible I have presum’d too far to entertain you with a rude discourse of that Art which you both know so well, and put into practice with so much happiness. Yet before I leave Virgil, I must own the vanity to tell you, and by you the world, that he has been my Master in this Poem: I have followed him everywhere, I know not with what success, but I am sure with diligence enough: My Images are many of them copied from him, and the rest are imitations of him. My Expressions also are as near as the Idioms of the two Languages would admit of in translation. And this, Sir, I have done with that boldness, for which I will stand accomptable to any of our little Criticks, who, perhaps, are not better acquainted with him than I am. Upon your first perusal of this Poem, you have taken notice of some words which I have innovated (if it be too bold for me to say refin’d) upon his Latin; which, as I offer not to introduce into English prose, so I hope they are neither improper nor altogether unelegant in Verse; and, in this, Horace will again defend me.
Et nova, fictaque nuper, habebunt verba fidem, si
Græco fonte cadant, parcè detorta.
The inference is exceeding plain; for if a Roman Poet might have liberty to coin a word, supposing only that it was derived from the Greek, was put into a Latin termination, and that he used this liberty but seldom, and with modesty: How much more justly may I challenge that priviledge to do it with the same prerequisits, from the best and most judicious of Latin Writers? In some places, where either the Fancy, o
r the Words, were his or any others, I have noted it in the Margin, that I might not seem a Plagiary; in others I have neglected it, to avoid as well tediousness as the affectation of doing it too often. Such descriptions or images, well wrought, which I promise not for mine, are, as I have said, the adequate delight of heroick Poesie; for they beget admiration, which is its proper object; as the Images of the Burlesque, which is contrary to this, by the same reason beget laughter; for the one shows Nature beautified, as in the Picture of a fair Woman, which we all admire; the other shows her deformed, as in that of a Lazar, or of a Fool with distorted face and antique gestures, at which we cannot forbear to laugh, because it is a deviation from Nature. But though the same Images serve equally for the Epique Poesie, and for the historique and panegyrique, which are branches of it, yet a several sort of Sculpture is to be used in them: If some of them are to be like those of Juvenal, Stantes in curribus Æmiliani, Heroes drawn in their triumphal Chariots and in their full proportion; others are to be like that of Virgil, Spirantia mollius æra: there is somewhat more of softness and tenderness to be shown in them. You will soon find I write not this without concern. Some, who have seen a paper of Verses which I wrote last year to her Highness the Dutches, have accus’d them of that only thing I could defend in them; they have said, I did humi serpere, that I wanted not only height of Fancy, but dignity of Words to set it off; I might well answer with that of Horace, Nunc non erat his locus, I knew I address’d them to a Lady, and accordingly I affected the softness of expression and the smoothness of measure, rather than the height of thought; and in what I did endeavour, it is no vanity to say, I have succeeded. I detest arrogance; but there is some difference betwixt that and a just defence. But I will not farther bribe your candor, or the Readers. I leave them to speak for me; and, if they can, to make out that character, not pretending to a greater, which I have given them.
Verses to Her Highness the DUTCHES on the
Memorable Victory gained by the DUKE against
the Hollanders, June the 3d. 1665. And
on Her Journey afterwards into the North.
MADAM,
WHEN for our sakes your Heroe you resign’d
To swelling Seas and every faithless wind;
When you releas’d his Courage and set free
A Valour fatal to the Enemy,
You lodg’d your Countries cares within your breast,
(The mansion where soft love should only rest:)
And e’re our Foes abroad were overcome,
The noblest conquest you had gain’d at home.
Ah, what concerns did both your Souls divide!
Your Honour gave us what your Love deni’d:
And ’twas for him much easier to subdue
Those Foes he fought with, than to part from you.
That glorious day, which two such Navies saw
As each, unmatch’d, might to the world give Law,
Neptune, yet doubtful whom he should obey,
Held to them both the Trident of the Sea:
The Winds were hush’d, the Waves in ranks were cast,
As awfully as when God’s People past:
Those, yet uncertain on whose Sails to blow,
These, where the wealth of Nations ought to flow.
Then with the Duke your Highness rul’d the day:
While all the Brave did his Command obey,
The Fair and Pious under you did pray.
How pow’rful are chast Vows! the Wind and Tyde
You brib’d to combat on the English side.
Thus to your much loved Lord you did convey
An unknown succour, sent the nearest way.
New vigour to his wearied arms you brought
(So Moses was upheld while Israel fought.)
While, from afar, we heard the Cannon play,
Like distant Thunder on a shiny day.
For absent Friends we were asham’d to fear,
When we consider’d what you ventur’d there.
Ships, Men and Arms our Country might restore,
But such a Leader could supply no more.
With generous thoughts of Conquest he did burn,
Yet fought not more to vanquish than return.
Fortune and Victory he did persue
To bring them as his Slaves, to wait on you:
Thus Beauty ravish’d the rewards of Fame
And the Fair triumph’d when the Brave o’recame.
Then, as you meant to spread another way
By Land your Conquests far as his by Sea,
Leaving our Southern Clime, you march’d along
The stubborn North, ten thousand Cupid’s strong.
Like Commons the Nobility resort,
In crowding heaps, to fill your moving Court:
To welcome your approach the Vulgar run,
Like some new Envoy from the distant Sun,
And Country Beauties by their Lovers go,
Blessing themselves, and wondring at the show.
So, when the New-born Phœnix first is seen,
Her feather’d Subjects all adore their Queen,
And, while She makes her Progress through the East,
From every Grove her numerous Train’s increast:
Each Poet of the air her Glory sings,
And round him the pleas’d Audience clap their Wings.
And now, Sir, ’tis time I should relieve you from the tedious length of this account. You have better and more profitable employment for your hours, and I wrong the Publick to detain you longer. In conclusion, I must leave my Poem to you with all its faults, which I hope to find fewer in the Printing by your emendations. I know you are not of the number of those, of whom the younger Pliny speaks; Nec sunt parum multi, qui carpere amicos suos judicium vocant; I am rather too secure of you on that side. Your candor in pardoning my Errors may make you more remiss in correcting them; if you will not withal consider that they come into the world with your approbation, and through your hands. I beg from you the greatest favour you can confer upon an absent person, since I repose upon your management what is dearest to me, my Fame and Reputation; and, therefore, I hope it will stir you up to make my Poem fairer by many of your blots. If not, you know the story of the Gamster who married the rich Man’s Daughter and, when her Father denied the Portion, Christened all the Children by his Sirname, that, if in conclusion they must beg, they should do so by one Name as well as by the other. But since the reproach of my faults will light on you, ’tis but reason I should do you that justice to the Readers to let them know, that, if there be anything tolerable in this Poem, they owe the Argument to your choice, the Writing to your encouragement, the Correction to your judgment, and the Care of it to your friendship, to which he must ever acknowledge himself to owe all things, who is,
Sir,
The most Obedient and most
Faithful of your Servants,
JOHN DRYDEN.
From Charlton, in
Wiltshire, Nov.
10, 1666.
Annus Mirabilis
THE YEAR OF WONDERS, M DC LXVI
1
IN thriving Arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home, and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our Merchants aw’d.
2
Trade, which like Blood should circularly flow, 5
Stopp’d in their Channels, found its Freedom lost:
Thither the Wealth of all the World did go,
And seem’d but Shipwrack’d on so base a Coast.
3
For them alone the Heav’ns had kindly heat;
In Eastern Quarries ripening precious Dew: 10
For them the Idumæan Balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceilon Spicy Forrests grew.
4
The Sun but seem’d the Lab’rer of their Year;
Each waxing Moon supplied her watry store,
To swell tho
se Tides, which from the Line did bear 15
Their brim-full Vessels to the Belg’an shore.
5
Thus, mighty in her Ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the Riches of the world from far,
Yet stoop’d to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punick War. 20
