John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  I therefore think myself oblig’d to thank Your Lordship for the Commission which You have given me: How I have acquitted my self of it, must be left to the Opinion of the World, in spite of any Protestation, which I can enter against the present Age, as Incompetent, or Corrupt Judges. For my Comfort, they are but Englishmen, and, as such, if they Think Ill of me to Day, they are inconstant enough to Think Well of me to Morrow. And, after all, I have not much to thank my Fortune that I was born amongst them. The Good of both Sexes are so few, in England, that they stand like Exceptions against General Rules: And though one of them has deserv’d a greater Commendation, than I cou’d give her, they have taken care, that I shou’d not tire my Pen, with frequent exercise on the like Subject; that Praises, like Taxes, should be appropriated; and left almost as Individual as the Person. They say, my Talent is Satyre: if it be so, ’tis a fruitful Age; and there is an extraordinary Crop to gather. But a single hand is insufficient for such a Harvest: They have sown the Dragons Teeth themselves; and it is but just they shou’d reap each other in Lampoons. You, my Lord, who have the Character of Honour, though ’tis not my happiness to know You, may stand aside with the small Remainders of the English Nobility, truly such, and, unhurt your selves, behold the mad Combat. If I have pleas’d You and some few others, I have obtain’d my end. You see I have disabled my self, like an Elected Speaker of the House; yet, like him, I have undertaken the Charge, and find the Burden sufficiently recompenc’d by the Honour. Be pleas’d to accept of these my Unworthy Labours, this Paper Monument; and let her Pious Memory, which I am sure is Sacred to You, not only plead the Pardon of my many Faults, but gain me Your Protection, which is ambitiously sought by,

  MY LORD,

  Your Lordship’s

  Most Obedient Servant,

  John Dryden.

  ELEONORA:

  A PANEGYRICAL POEM.

  Dedicated to the MEMORY OF THE Late Countess of ABINGDON.

  AS, when some Great and Gracious Monarch dies,

  Soft whispers, first, and mournful Murmurs rise

  Among the sad Attendants; then, the sound

  Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around,

  Through Town and Country, till the dreadful blast 5

  Is blown to distant Colonies at last;

  Who, then perhaps, were off’ring Vows in vain,

  For his long life and for his happy Reign:

  So slowly, by degrees, unwilling Fame

  Did Matchless Eleonora’s fate proclaim, 10

  Till publick as the loss the news became.

  The Nation felt it, in th’ extremest parts,

  With eyes o’reflowing and with bleeding hearts:

  But most the Poor, whom daily she supply’d;

  Beginning to be such, but when she dy’d. 15

  For, while she liv’d, they slept in peace, by night;

  Secure of bread, as of returning light,

  And, with such firm dependence on the Day,

  That need grew pamper’d; and forgot to pray:

  So sure the Dole, so ready at their call, 20

  They stood prepar’d to see the Manna fall.

  Such Multitudes she fed, she cloath’d, she nurst,

  That she, her self, might fear her wanting first.

  Of her Five Talents, other five she made;

  Heav’n, that had largely giv’n, was largely pay’d; 25

  And, in few lives, in wondrous few, we find

  A Fortune better fitted to the Mind.

  Nor did her Alms from Ostentation fall,

  Or proud desire of Praise; the Soul gave all:

  Unbrib’d it gave; or, if a bribe appear, 30

  No less than Heav’n; to heap huge treasures, there.

  Want passed for Merit, at her open door:

  Heav’n saw, he safely might increase his Poor,

  And trust their Sustenance with her so well

  As not to be at charge of Miracle. 35

  None cou’d be needy, whom she saw, or knew;

  All, in the compass of her Sphear, she drew:

  He who cou’d touch her Garment, was as sure,

  As the first Christians of th’ Apostles cure.

  The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds; 40

  And laid her up, for their extremest needs;

  A future Cordial for a fainting Mind;

  For, what was ne’re refus’d, all hop’d to find,

  Each in his turn: The Rich might freely come,

  As to a Friend; but to the Poor, ’twas Home. 45

  As to some Holy House th’ Afflicted came;

  The Hunger-starv’d, the Naked, and the Lame;

  Want and Diseases fled before her Name.

  For zeal like hers, her Servants were too slow;

  She was the first, where need requir’d, to go, 50

  Her self the Foundress, and Attendant too.

  Sure she had Guests sometimes to entertain,

  Guests in disguise, of her Great Master’s Train:

  Her Lord himself might come, for ought we know;

  Since in a Servant’s form he liv’d below; 55

  Beneath her Roof, he might be pleased to stay:

  Or some benighted Angel, in his way

  Might ease his Wings; and seeing Heav’n appear

  In its best work of Mercy, think it there,

  Where all the deeds of Charity and Love 60

  Were in as constant Method, as above,

  All carry’d on; all of a piece with theirs;

  As free her Alms, as diligent her cares;

  As loud her Praises, and as warm her Pray’rs.

  Yet was she not profuse; but fear’d to wast, 65

  And wisely manag’d, that the stock might last;

  That all might be supply’d; and she not grieve

  When crowds appear’d, she had not to relieve.

  Which to prevent, she still increas’d her store;

  Laid up, and spar’d, that she might give the more: 70

  So Pharaoh, or some Greater king than he,

  Provided for the sev’nth Necessity:

  Taught from above, his Magazines to frame;

  That Famine was prevented e’re it came.

  Thus Heav’n, though All-sufficient, shows a thrift 75

  In his Oeconomy, and bounds his gift:

  Creating for our Day, one single Light;

  And his Reflection too supplies the Night:

  Perhaps a thousand other Worlds, that lye

  Remote from us, and latent in the Sky, 80

  Are lighten’d by his Beams, and kindly nurst;

  Of which our Earthly Dunghil is the worst.

  Now, as all Vertues keep the middle line,

  Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline,

  Such was her Soul; abhorring Avarice, 85

  Bounteous, but, almost bounteous to a Vice:

  Had she giv’n more, it had Profusion been,

  And turn’d the excess of Goodness, into Sin.

  These Vertues rais’d her Fabrick to the Sky;

  For that which is next Heav’n, is Charity. 90

  But, as high Turrets for their Ay’ry steep

  Require Foundations, in proportion deep:

  And lofty Cedars as far upward shoot

  As to the neather Heav’ns they drive the root;

  So low did her secure Foundation lye, 95

  She was not Humble, but Humility.

  Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair,

  Or wise, beyond what other Women are,

  Or, which is better, knew; but never durst compare.

  For to be conscious of what all admire, 100

  And not be vain, advances Vertue high’r:

  But still she found, or rather thought she found,

  Her own worth wanting, others’ to abound:

  Ascrib’d above their due to ev’ry one,

  Unjust and scanty to her self alone. 105

  Such her Devotion was, as might give rules


  Of Speculation, to disputing Schools;

  And teach us equally the Scales to hold

  Betwixt the two Extremes of hot and cold

  That pious heat may mod’rately prevail, 110

  And we be warm’d, but not be scorch’d with zeal.

  Business might shorten, not disturb her Pray’r;

  Heav’n had the best, if not the greater share.

  An Active life long Oraisons forbids;

  Yet still she pray’d, for still she pray’d by deeds. 115

  Her ev’ry day was Sabbath; Only free

  From hours of Pray’r, for hours of Charity.

  Such as the Jews from servile toil releast;

  Where works of Mercy were a part of rest:

  Such as blest Angels exercise above, 120

  Vary’d with Sacred Hymns, and Acts of Love;

  Such Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys;

  Ev’n that perpetual one, which she employs,

  (For such vicissitudes in Heav’n there are)

  In Praise alternate, and alternate Pray’r. 125

  All this she practis’d here; that when she sprung

  Amidst the Quires, at the first sight she sung.

  Sung, and was sung her self, in Angels Lays;

  For praising her, they did her Maker praise.

  All Offices of Heav’n so well she knew, 130

  Before she came, that nothing there was new;

  And she was so familiarly receiv’d,

  As one returning, not as one arriv’d.

  Muse, down again precipitate thy flight;

  For how can Mortal Eyes sustain Immortal Light! 135

  But as the Sun in Water we can bear,

  Yet not the Sun, but his Reflection there,

  So let us view her here, in what she was,

  And take her Image in this watry Glass:

  Yet look not ev’ry Lineament to see; 140

  Some will be cast in shades; and some will be

  So lamely drawn, you scarcely know, ’tis she.

  For where such various Vertues we recite,

  ’Tis like the Milky-Way, all over bright,

  But sown so thick with Stars, ’tis undistinguish’d light. 145

  Her Vertue, not her Vertues let us call;

  For one Heroick comprehends ‘em all:

  One, as a Constellation is but one;

  Though ’tis a Train of Stars, that, rolling on,

  Rise in their turn, and in the Zodiack run, 150

  Ever in Motion; now ’tis Faith ascends,

  Now Hope, now Charity, that upward tends,

  And downwards with diffusive Good, descends.

  As in Perfumes compos’d with Art and Cost,

  ’Tis hard to say what Scent is uppermost; 155

  Nor this part Musk or Civet can we call,

  Or Amber, but a rich Result of all;

  So, she was all a Sweet; whose ev’ry part,

  In due proportion mix’d, proclaim’d the Maker’s Art.

  No single Virtue we cou’d most commend, 160

  Whether the Wife, the Mother, or the Friend:

  For she was all, in that supreme degree,

  That, as no one prevail’d, so all was she.

  The sev’ral parts lay hidden in the Piece;

  Th’ Occasion but exerted that, or this. 165

  A Wife as tender, and as true withall,

  As the first Woman was, before her fall:

  Made for the Man, of whom she was a part;

  Made, to attract his Eyes, and keep his Heart,

  A second Eve, but by no crime accurst; 170

  As beauteous, not as brittle as the first.

  Had she been first, still Paradise had bin,

  And Death had found no entrance by her sin.

  So she not only had preserv’d from ill

  Her Sex and ours, but liv’d their Pattern still. 175

  Love and Obedience to her Lord she bore,

  She much obey’d him, but she lov’d him more.

  Not aw’d to Duty by superior sway;

  But taught by his Indulgence to obey.

  Thus we love God as Author of our good; 180

  So Subjects love just Kings, or so they shou’d.

  Nor was it with Ingratitude return’d;

  In equal Fires the blissful Couple burn’d:

  One Joy possess’d ‘em both, and in one Grier they mourn’d.

  His Passion still improv’d: he lov’d so fast 185

  As if he fear’d each day wou’d be her last.

  Too true a Prophet to foresee the Fate

  That shou’d so soon divide their happy State:

  When he to Heav’n entirely must restore

  That Love, that Heart, where he went halves before. 190

  Yet as the Soul is all in ev’ry part,

  So God and He, might each have all her Heart.

  So had her Children too; for Charity

  Was not more fruitful, or more kind than she:

  Each under other by degrees they grew; 195

  A goodly Perspective of distant view.

  Anchises look’d not with so pleas’d a face

  In numb’ring o’er his future Roman Race,

  And Marshalling the Heroes of his name,

  As, in their Order, next to light they came; 200

  Nor Cybele with half so kind an Eye,

  Survey’d her Sons and Daughters of the Skie.

  Proud, shall I say, of her immortal Fruit,

  As far as Pride with Heav’nly Minds may suit.

  Her pious love excell’d to all she bore; 205

  New Objects only multiply’d it more.

  And as the Chosen found the perly Grain

  As much as ev’ry Vessel could contain;

  As in the Blissful Vision each shall share,

  As much of Glory, as his soul can bear; 210

  So did she love, and so dispense her Care.

  Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best;

  As longer cultivated than the rest:

  The Babe had all that Infant care beguiles,

  And early knew his Mother in her smiles: 215

  But when dilated Organs let in day

  To the young Soul, and gave it room to play,

  At his first aptness, the Maternal Love

  Those Rudiments of Reason did improve:

  The tender Age was pliant to command; 220

  Like Wax it yielded to the forming hand:

  True to th’ Artificer, the labour’d Mind

  With ease was pious, generous, just and kind;

  Soft for Impression, from the first, prepar’d,

  Till Vertue, with long exercise, grew hard; 225

  With ev’ry Act confirm’d; and made, at last

  So durable, as not to be effac’d,

  It turned to Habit; and, from Vices free,

  Goodness resolv’d into Necessity.

  Thus fix’d she Virtue’s Image, that’s her own, 230

  Till the whole Mother in the Children shone;

  For that was their perfection; she was such,

  They never cou’d express her Mind too much,

  So unexhausted her Perfections were,

  That, for more Children, she had more to spare; 235

  For Souls unborn, whom her untimely death

  Depriv’d of Bodies and of mortal breath:

  And (cou’d they take th’ Impressions of her Mind)

  Enough still left to sanctifie her kind.

  Then wonder not to see this Soul extend 240

  The bounds, and seek some other self, a Friend:

  As swelling Seas to gentle Rivers glide,

  To seek repose, and empty out the Tyde:

  So this full Soul, in narrow limits pent,

  Unable to contain her, sought a vent, 245

  To issue out, and in some friendly breast

  Discharge her Treasures, and securely rest:

  T’ unbosom all the secrets of her Heart,

  Take
good advice, but better to impart.

  For ’tis the bliss of Friendship’s holy state 250

  To mix their Minds, and to communicate;

  Though Bodies cannot, Souls can penetrate.

  Fixt to her choice; inviolably true;

  And wisely chusing, for she chose but few.

  Some she must have; but in no one cou’d find 255

  A Tally fitted for so large a Mind.

  The Souls of Friends like Kings in Progress are;

  Still in their own, though from the Pallace far:

  Thus her Friend’s Heart her Country Dwelling was,

  A sweet Retirement to a courser place: 260

  Where Pomp and Ceremonies enter’d not;

  Where Greatness was shut out, and Buis’ness well forgot.

  This is th’ imperfect draught; but short as far

  As the true height and bigness of a Star

  Exceeds the Measures of th’ Astronomer. 265

  She shines above, we know, but in what place,

  How near the Throne, and Heav’ns Imperial Face,

  By our weak Opticks is but vainly ghest;

  Distance and Altitude conceal the rest.

  Tho all these rare Endowments of the Mind 270

  Were in a narrow space of life confin’d;

  The Figure was with full Perfection crown’d;

  Though not so large an Orb, as truly round.

  As when in glory, through the publick place,

  The Spoils of conquer’d Nations were to pass, 275

  And but one Day for Triumph was allowed,

  The Consul was constrain’d his Pomp to crowd;

  And so the swift Procession hurry’d on,

  That all, though not distinctly, might be shown:

  So, in the straiten’d bounds of life confin’d, 280

  She gave but glimpses of her glorious Mind

  And multitudes of Vertues pass’d along,

  Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng;

  Ambitious to be seen, and then make room,

  For greater Multitudes that were to come. 285

  Yet unemploy’d no Minute slipt away;

  Moments were precious in so short a stay

  The haste of Heav’n to have her was so great

  That some were single Acts, though each compleat;

  But ev’ry Act stood ready to repeat. 290

  Her fellow Saints with busie care, will look

  For her blest Name in Fate’s eternal Book;

  And, pleas’d to be outdone, with joy will see

  Numberless Vertues, endless Charity;

  But more will wonder at so short an Age 295