Volume 11 — ELEONORA:
Reading edition
A
PANEGYRICAL POEM,
DEDICATED
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE
COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.
——Superas evadere per auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci quos æquus amavit Jupiter, aut ardens evixit ad æthera virtus, Diis geniti potuere.Virgil. Æneid. lib. vi.
ELEONORA.
Mr. Malone has given a full account of the lady in whose honour this poem was written: "Eleonora, eldest daughter, and at length sole heir, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in the county of Oxford, Baronet, by Anne, daughter of Sir John Danvers, and sister and heir to Henry Danvers, Esq., who was nephew and heir to Henry, Earl of Danby: She was the wife of James Bertie, first Earl of Abingdon, and died May 31, 1691. Her lord, in 1698, married a second wife, Catharine, daughter of Sir Thomas Chamberlaine, Bart."
Her death was unexpectedly sudden, and took place in a ball-room in her own house; a circumstance which our author has hardly glanced at, although capable of striking illustration; and although one might have thought he would have grasped at whatever could assist him in executing the difficult task, of an elegy written by desire of a nobleman whom he did not know, in memory of a lady whom he had never seen. It is to be presumed, that the task imposed was handsomely recompensed; for we can hardly conceive one in itself more unpleasant or unprofitable. Notwithstanding Dryden's professions, that he "swam with the tide" while composing this piece, and that the variety and multitude of his similies were owing to the divine afflatus and the influence of his subject, we may be fairly permitted to doubt, whether they did not rather originate in an attempt to supply the lack of real sympathy, by the indulgence of a luxuriant imagination. The commencement has been rather severely censured by Dr Johnson; the comparison, he says, contains no illustration. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented: "This," observes he, "is little better than to say of a shrub, that it is as green as a tree; or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as a river waters a country." But, I presume, the point on which Dryden meant the comparison to depend, was, the extent of the lamentation occasioned by Eleonora's death; in which particular the simile conveyed an illustration as ample, as if Dryden had said of a myrtle, it was as tall as an oak, or of a brook, it was as deep as the Thames.
The poem is certainly totally deficient in interest; for the character has no peculiarity of features: But, considered as an abstract example of female perfection, we may admire the ideal Eleonora, as we do the fancy-piece of a celebrated painter, though with an internal consciousness that the original never existed.
"Eleonora" first appeared in quarto, in 1692, probably about the end of autumn; as Dryden alludes to the intervention of some months between Lord Abingdon's commands and his own performance.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c.[85]
MY LORD,
T he commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are now performed: they had been sooner, but betwixt ill health, some business, and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time. Ovid, going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his friends, excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told them, that good verses never flow, but from a serene and composed spirit. Wit, which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to obey you late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing any thing, at any time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say that I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by hard swimming, where I may pant awhile and gather breath; for the doctors give me a sad assurance, that my disease[86] never took its leave of any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord, I have laid hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the inspiration when we please; but must wait till the God comes rushing on us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist; which gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us languishing and spent, at its departure. Let me not seem to boast, my lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond my natural power. Let me add, and hope to be believed, that the excellency of the subject contributed much to the happiness of the execution; and that the weight of thirty years was taken off me while I was writing. I swam with the tide, and the water under me was buoyant. The reader will easily observe, that I was transported by the multitude and variety of my similitudes; which are generally the product of a luxuriant fancy, and the wantonness of wit. Had I called in my judgment to my assistance, I had certainly retrenched many of them. But I defend them not; let them pass for beautiful faults amongst the better sort of critics; for the whole poem, though written in that which they call heroic verse, is of the pindaric nature, as well in the thought as the expression; and, as such, requires the same grains of allowance for it. It was intended, as your lordship sees in the title, not for an elegy, but a panegyric: a kind of apotheosis, indeed, if a heathen word may be applied to a Christian use. And on all occasions of praise, if we take the ancients for our patterns, we are bound by prescription to employ the magnificence of words, and the force of figures, to adorn the sublimity of thoughts. Isocrates amongst the Grecian orators, and Cicero, and the younger Pliny, amongst the Romans, have left us their precedents for our security; for I think I need not mention the inimitable Pindar, who stretches on these pinions out of sight, and is carried upward, as it were, into another world.
This, at least, my lord, I may justly plead, that, if I have not performed so well as I think I have, yet I have used my best endeavours to excel myself. One disadvantage I have had, which is, never to have known or seen my lady; and to draw the lineaments of her mind from the description which I have received from others, is for a painter to set himself at work without the living original before him; which, the more beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive, when he has only a relation given him of such and such features by an acquaintance or a friend, without the nice touches, which give the best resemblance, and make the graces of the picture. Every artist is apt enough to flatter himself, and I amongst the rest, that their own ocular observations would have discovered more perfections, at least others, than have been delivered to them; though I have received mine from the best hands, that is, from persons who neither want a just understanding of my lady's worth, nor a due veneration for her memory.
Doctor Donne, the greatest wit, though not the best poet of our nation, acknowledges, that he had never seen Mrs Drury, whom he has made immortal in his admirable "Anniversaries."[87] I have had the same fortune, though I have not succeeded to the same genius. However, I have followed his footsteps in the design of his panegyric; which was to raise an emulation in the living, to copy out the example of the dead. And therefore it was, that I once intended to have called this poem "The Pattern;" and though, on a second consideration, I changed the title into the name of that illustrious person, yet the design continues, and Eleonora is still the pattern of charity, devotion, and humility; of the best wife, the best mother, and the best of friends.
And now, my lord, though I have endeavoured to answer your commands, yet I could not answer it to the world, nor to my conscience, if I gave not your lordship my testimony of being the best husband now living: I say my testimony only; for the praise of it is given you by yourself. They, who despise the rules of virtue both in their practice and their morals, will think this a very trivial commendation. But I think it the peculiar happiness of the Countess of Abingdon, to have been so truly loved by you, while she was living, and so gratefully honoured, after she was dead. Few there are who have either had, or could have, such a loss; and yet fewer, who carried their love and constancy beyond the grave. The exteriors of mourning, a decent funeral, and black habits, are the usual stints of common husbands; and perhaps their wives deserve no better than to be mourned with hypocrisy, and forgot with ease. But you have distinguished yourself from ordinary lovers, by a real and lasting grief for the deceased; and by endeavouring to raise for her the most durable monument, which is that of verse. And so it would have proved, if the workman had been equal to the work, and your choice of the artificer as happy as your design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the statue of Minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author of the piece; so give me leave to hope, that, by subscribing mine to this poem, I may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity by the memory of hers. It is no flattery to assure your lordship, that she is remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of her conversation and acquaintance; and that I have never been in any company since the news of her death was first brought me, where they have not extolled her virtues, and even spoken the same things of her in prose, which I have done in verse.
I therefore think myself obliged to your lordship for the commission which you have given me: how I have acquitted myself 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 deserved a greater commendation than I could give her, they have taken care that I should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the like subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and left almost as individual as the person. They say, my talent is satire; if it be so, it is 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 dragon's teeth themselves, and it is but just they should reap each other in lampoons. You, my lord, who have the character of honour, though it is not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the small remainders of the English nobility, truly such, and, unhurt yourselves, behold the mad combat. If I have pleased you, and some few others, I have obtained my end. You see I have disabled myself, like an elected Speaker of the House; yet, like him, I have undertaken the charge, and find the burden sufficiently recompensed by the honour. Be pleased 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.
ARGUMENT.
From the Marginal Notes of the First Edition.
The introduction. Of her charity. Of her prudent management. Of her humility. Of her piety. Of her various virtues. Of her conjugal virtues. Of her love to her children. Her care of their education. Of her friendship. Reflections on the shortness of her life. The manner of her death. Her preparedness to die. Apostrophe to her soul. Epiphonema, or close of the poem.
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 Is blown to distant colonies at last, Who then, perhaps, were offering vows in vain, For his long life, and for his happy reign: } { So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame { Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, { Till public as the loss the news became. The nation felt it in the extremest parts, With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts; But most the poor, whom daily she supplied, Beginning to be such, but when she died. For, while she lived, they slept in peace by night, Secure of bread, as of returning light, And with such firm dependence on the day, That need grew pampered, and forgot to pray; So sure the dole, so ready at their call, They stood prepared to see the manna fall. Such multitudes she fed, she clothed, she nurst, That she herself might fear her wanting first. Of her five talents, other five she made; Heaven, that had largely given, was largely paid; And in few lives, in wonderous 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: Unbribed it gave; or, if a bribe appear, No less than heaven, to heap huge treasures there. Want passed for merit at her open door: Heaven saw, he safely might increase his poor, And trust their sustenance with her so well, As not to be at charge of miracle. None could be needy, whom she saw or knew; All in the compass of her sphere she drew: He, who could touch her garment, was as sure, As the first Christians of the apostles' cure. The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds, And laid her up for their extremest needs; A future cordial for a fainting mind; For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped to find, Each in his turn: the rich might freely come, As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas home. } { As to some holy house the afflicted came, { The hunger-starved, the naked, and the lame, { Want and diseases fled before her name. } { For zeal like her's her servants were too slow; { She was the first, where need required, to go; { Herself 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 aught we know, Since in a servant's form he lived below: Beneath her roof he might be pleased to stay; Or some benighted angel, in his way, Might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven appear In its best work of mercy, think it there; Where all the deeds of charity and love Were in as constant method, as above, } { All carried on; all of a piece with theirs; { As free her alms, as diligent her cares; { As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers. Yet was she not profuse; but feared to waste, And wisely managed, that the stock might last; That all might be supplied, and she not grieve, When crowds appeared, she had not to relieve: Which to prevent, she still increased her store; Laid up, and spared, that she might give the more. So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he, Provided for the seventh necessity;[88] Taught from above his magazines to frame, That famine was prevented ere it came. Thus heaven, though all-sufficient, shews a thrift In his œconomy, and bounds his gift; Creating for our day one single light, And his reflection too supplies the night. Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie Remote from us, and latent in the sky, Are lightened by his beams, and kindly nurst, Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst. Now, as all virtues keep the middle line, Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline, Such was her soul; abhorring avarice, Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice; Had she given more, it had profusion been, And turned the excess of goodness into sin. These virtues raised her fabric to the sky; For that which is next heaven is charity. But as high turrets for their airy steep Require foundations in proportion deep, And lofty cedars as far upward shoot As to the nether heavens they drive the root; So low did her secure foundation lie, 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, And not be vain, advances virtue higher. But still she found, or rather thought she found, Her own worth wanting, others' to abound; Ascribed above their due to every one, Unjust and scanty to herself alone. 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 moderately prevail, And we be warmed, but not be scorched with zeal. Business might shorten, not disturb, her prayer; Heaven had the best, if not the greater share. An active life long orisons forbids; Yet still she prayed, for still she prayed by deeds. Her every day was sabbath; only free From hours of prayer, for hours of charity. Such as the Jews from servile toil released, Where works of mercy were a part of rest; Such as blest angels exercise above, Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love; Such sabbaths as that one she now enjoys, E'en that perpetual one, which she employs, (For such vicissitudes in heaven there are) In praise alternate, and alternate prayer. All this she practised here, that when she sprung Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung; Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays; For, praising her, they did her Maker praise. All offices of heaven so well she knew, Before she came, that nothing there was new; And she was so familiarly received, As one returning, not as one arrived. Muse, down again precipitate thy flight; For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal light? 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 watery glass: } { Yet look not every lineament to see; { Some will be cast in shades, and some will be { So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 'tis she. } { For where such various virtues we recite, { 'Tis like the milky-way, all over bright, { But sown so thick with stars, 'tis undistinguished light. Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call; For one heroic comprehends them all: } { One, as a constellation is but one, { Though 'tis a train of stars, that, rolling on, { Rise in their turn, and in the zodiac run, } { Ever in motion; now 'tis faith ascends, { Now hope, now charity, that upward tends, { And downwards with diffusive good descends. As in perfumes composed with art and cost, Tis hard to say what scent is uppermost; Nor this part musk or civet can we call, Or amber, but a rich result of all; So she was all a sweet, whose every part, In due proportion mixed, proclaimed the Maker's art. No single virtue we could most commend, Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend; For she was all, in that supreme degree, That as no one prevailed, so all was she. The several parts lay hidden in the piece; The occasion but exerted that, or this. A wife as tender, and as true withal, 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; As beauteous, not as brittle as the first. Had she been first, still Paradise had been, And death had found no entrance by her sin. So she not only had preserved from ill Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still. Love and obedience to her lord she bore; She much obeyed him, but she loved him more: Not awed to duty by superior sway, But taught by his indulgence to obey. Thus we love God, as author of our good; So subjects love just kings, or so they should. } { Nor was it with ingratitude returned; { In equal fires the blissful couple burned; { One joy possessed them both, and in one grief they mourned. His passion still improved; he loved so fast, As if he feared each day would be her last. Too true a prophet to foresee the fate That should so soon divide their happy state; When he to heaven entirely must restore That love, that heart, where he went halves before. Yet as the soul is all in every 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:[89] Each under other by degrees they grew; A goodly perspective of distant view. Anchises looked not with so pleased a face, In numbering o'er his future Roman race,[90] And marshalling the heroes of his name, As, in their order, next to light they came; Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye, Surveyed her sons and daughters of the sky; Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit? As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit. Her pious love excelled to all she bore; New objects only multiplied it more. And as the chosen found the pearly grain As much as every vessel could contain; } { As in the blissful vision each shall share { As much of glory as his soul can bear; { 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: 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; Like wax it yielded to the forming hand: True to the artificer, the laboured mind With ease was pious, generous, just, and kind; Soft for impression, from the first prepared, Till virtue with long exercise grew hard: With every act confirmed, and made at last So durable as not to be effaced, It turned to habit; and, from vices free, Goodness resolved into necessity. Thus fixed she virtue's image, (that's her own,) Till the whole mother in the children shone; For that was their perfection: she was such, They never could express her mind too much. So unexhausted her perfections were, That, for more children, she had more to spare; For souls unborn, whom her untimely death Deprived of bodies, and of mortal breath; And, could they take the impressions of her mind, Enough still left to sanctify her kind. Then wonder not to see this soul extend The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend; As swelling seas to gentle rivers glide, To seek repose, and empty out the tide; So this full soul, in narrow limits pent, Unable to contain her, sought a vent To issue out, and in some friendly breast Discharge her treasures, and securely rest; To unbosom all the secrets of her heart, Take good advice, but better to impart. } { For 'tis the bliss of friendship's holy state, { To mix their minds, and to communicate; { Though bodies cannot, souls can penetrate: Fixed to her choice, inviolably true, And wisely choosing, for she chose but few. Some she must have; but in no one could find A tally fitted for so large a mind. The souls of friends like kings in progress are, Still in their own, though from the palace far: Thus her friend's heart her country dwelling was, A sweet retirement to a coarser place; Where pomp and ceremonies entered not, Where greatness was shut out, and business well forgot. } { This is the imperfect draught; but short as far { As the true height and bigness of a star { Exceeds the measures of the astronomer. She shines above, we know; but in what place, How near the throne, and heaven's imperial face, By our weak optics is but vainly guessed; Distance and altitude conceal the rest. Though all these rare endowments of the mind Were in a narrow space of life confined, The figure was with full perfection crowned; Though not so large an orb, as truly round. As when in glory, through the public place, The spoils of conquered nations were to pass, And but one day for triumph was allowed, The consul was constrained his pomp to crowd; And so the swift procession hurried on, That all, though not distinctly, might be shewn: So in the straitened bounds of life confined, She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind; And multitudes of virtues passed along, Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater multitudes that were to come. Yet unemployed no minute slipped away; Moments were precious in so short a stay. } { The haste of heaven to have her was so great, { That some were single acts, though each complete; { But every act stood ready to repeat. Her fellow-saints with busy care will look For her blest name in fate's eternal book; And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see Numberless virtues, endless charity: But more will wonder at so short an age, To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page; And with a pious fear begin to doubt The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. But 'twas her Saviour's time;[91] and, could there be A copy near the original, 'twas she. As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but perfume the temple, and expire; So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence; A short sweet odour, of a vast expence. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died; For but a now did heaven and earth divide: She passed serenely with a single breath; This moment perfect health, the next was death: One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue, Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new; So close they follow, such wild order keep, We think ourselves awake, and are asleep; So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there. No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise; Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice; As an old friend is beckoned to a feast, And treated like a long-familiar guest. He took her as he found, but found her so, As one in hourly readiness to go; E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared,[92] As early notice she from heaven had heard, And some descending courier from above Had given her timely warning to remove; Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room, For on that night the bridegroom was to come. He kept his hour, and found her where she lay, Clothed all in white, the livery of the day:[93] Scarce had she sinned in thought, or word, or act, Unless omissions were to pass for fact; That hardly death a consequence could draw, To make her liable to nature's law. And, that she died, we only have to shew The mortal part of her she left below; } { The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went, { Looked like translation through the firmament, { Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent. O happy soul! if thou canst view from high, Where thou art all intelligence, all eye, If looking up to God, or down to us, Thou find'st, that any way be pervious, Survey the ruins of thy house, and see Thy widowed and thy orphan family; Look on thy tender pledges left behind; And, if thou canst a vacant minute find From heavenly joys, that interval afford To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord. See how they grieve, mistaken in their love, And shed a beam of comfort from above; Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear, A transient view of thy full glories there; That they with moderate sorrow may sustain, And mollify their losses in thy gain. } { Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert, { That should not all relations bear a part, { It were enough to break a single heart. Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuse This humble tribute, of no vulgar muse; Who, not by cares, or wants, or age deprest, Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast; And dares to sing thy praises in a clime Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime; Where e'en to draw the picture of thy mind, Is satire on the most of human kind: Take it, while yet 'tis praise; before my rage, Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age; So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence From vice, but barely by departing hence. Be what, and where thou art; to wish thy place, Were, in the best, presumption more than grace. Thy relics, (such thy works of mercy are) Have, in this poem, been my holy care. } { 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.
ON THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS.
A PASTORAL ELEGY.
'T was on a joyless and a gloomy morn, Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn, When Damon, who designed to pass the day With hounds and horns, and chace the flying prey, } { Rose early from his bed; but soon he found { The welkin pitched with sullen clouds around, { An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground. Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey The fields, and curst the ill omens of the day, He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace: Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face: He wrung his hands, distracted with his care, And sent his voice before him from afar. "Return," he cried, "return, unhappy swain, The spungy clouds are filled with gathering rain: The promise of the day not only crossed, But even the spring, the spring itself is lost. Amyntas—oh!"—he could not speak the rest, Nor needed, for presaging Damon guessed. Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy, The boast of nature, both his parents' joy. His graceful form revolving in his mind; So great a genius, and a soul so kind, Gave sad assurance that his fears were true; Too well the envy of the gods he knew: For when their gifts too lavishly are placed, Soon they repent, and will not make them last. For sure it was too bountiful a dole, The mother's features, and the father's soul. Then thus he cried:—"The morn bespoke the news; The morning did her cheerful light diffuse; } { But see how suddenly she changed her face, { And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace; { Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race. What charms adorned thy youth, where nature smiled, And more than man was given us in a child! His infancy was ripe; a soul sublime In years so tender that prevented time: } { Heaven gave him all at once; then snatched away, { Ere mortals all his beauties could survey; { Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day.
MENALCAS.
The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest, Reclined his dying head upon her breast. } { The mournful family stood all around; { One groan was heard, one universal sound: { All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drowned. So dire a sadness sat on every look, Even death repented he had given the stroke. He grieved his fatal work had been ordained, But promised length of life to those who yet remained. The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace, It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space. The father bore it with undaunted soul, Like one who durst his destiny controul; Yet with becoming grief he bore his part, Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart. Patient as Job; and may he live to see, Like him, a new increasing family!
DAMON.
Such is my wish, and such my prophecy; For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains; Long may she exercise her fruitful pains! But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race More lasting, and endued with equal grace! Equal she may, but farther none can go; For he was all that was exact below.
MENALCAS.
Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud; Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud? There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way. He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies, And every moment gains upon the skies. The new-come guest admires the ethereal state, The sapphire portal, and the golden gate; And now admitted in the shining throng, He shows the passport which he brought along. His passport is his innocence and grace, Well known to all the natives of the place. Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire: Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow; For, like Amyntas, none is left below.
ON
THE DEATH
OF
A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
H e, who could view the book of destiny, And read whatever there was writ of thee, O charming youth, in the first opening page, So many graces in so green an age, Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind, A soul at once so manly and so kind, Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er, And, after some few leaves, should find no more. Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space, A step of life that promised such a race. We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began A child, and could not finish him a man; Reflecting what a mighty store was laid Of rich materials, and a model made: The cost already furnished; so bestowed, As more was never to one soul allowed: Yet after this profusion spent in vain, Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain, I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf, Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself; And giving us the use, did soon recal, Ere we could spare the mighty principal. Thus then he disappeared, was rarefied, For 'tis improper speech to say he died: He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew. 'Tis sin produces death; and he had none, But the taint Adam left on every son. He added not, he was so pure, so good, 'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood; And that so little, that the river ran More clear than the corrupted fount began. Nothing remained of the first muddy clay; The length of course had washed it in the way: So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold. As such we loved, admired, almost adored, Gave all the tribute mortals could afford. Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above Grew angry at our superstitious love; For when we more than human homage pay, The charming cause is justly snatched away. Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone; And yet we murmur that he went so soon, Though miracles are short, and rarely shown. Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide That love in many, which in one was tied. That individual blessing is no more, But multiplied in your remaining store. The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire; The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire. Love him by parts, in all your numerous race, And from those parts form one collected grace; Then, when you have refined to that degree, Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
UPON
YOUNG Mr ROGERS,
OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
The family of Rogers seems to have been of considerable antiquity in Gloucestershire. They possessed the estate of Dowdeswell during the greater part of the 16th and 17th centuries. Many of their monuments are in the church of Dowdeswell, of which they were patrons.—See Atkyn's Gloucestershire. The subject of this epitaph was probably of this family.
O f gentle blood, his parents only treasure, Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure. Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace, A large provision for so short a race: More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date, Too early fitted for a better state: But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay, He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way.
ON THE DEATH OF Mr PURCELL.
IN MUSIC.
Henry Purcell, as a musician, is said by Burney to have been as much the pride of an Englishman, as Shakespeare in the drama, Milton in epic poetry, or Locke and Newton in their several departments of philosophy. He was born in 1658, and died in 1695, at the premature age of 37 years. Dryden, to whose productions he had frequently added the charms of music, devoted a tribute to his memory in the following verses, which, with others by inferior bards, were prefixed to a collection of Purcell's music, published two years after his death, under the title of Orpheus Britannicus. The Ode was set to music by Dr Blow, and performed at the concert in York Buildings. Dr Burney says, that the music is composed in fugue and imitation; but appears laboured, and is wholly without invention or pathos.
The "Orpheus Britannicus" being inscribed by the widow of Purcell to the Hon. Lady Howard, both Sir John Hawkins and Dr Burney have been led into the mistake of supposing, that the person so named was no other than Lady Elizabeth Dryden, our author's wife. Mr Malone has detected this error; and indeed the high compliments paid by the dedicator to Mr Purcell's patroness, as an exquisite musician, a person of extensive influence, and one whose munificence had covered the remains of Purcell with "a fair monument," are irreconcileable with the character, situation, and pecuniary circumstances of Lady Elizabeth Dryden. The Lady Howard of the dedication must, unquestionably, have been the wife of the Honourable Sir Robert Howard; whence it follows, that the "honourable gentleman, who had the dearest, and most deserved relation to her, and whose excellent compositions were the subject of Purcell's last and best performances in music," was not our author, as has been erroneously supposed, but his brother-in-law, the said Sir Robert Howard, who continued to the last to be an occasional author, and to contribute songs to the dramatic performances of the day.[94]
Although Dryden's lady certainly did not erect Purcell's monument, it is more than probable, judging from internal evidence, that the poet contributed the inscription, which runs thus:
Here lies Henry Purcell, Esq. Who left this life, And is gone to that blessed place, Where only his harmony can be exceeded. Obiit 21mo die Novembris, Anno ætatis suæ 37mo, Annoq. Domini, 1695.
The stone over the grave bore the following epitaph:
Plaudito, felices Superi, tanto hospite; nostris Præfuerat, vestris additur ille choris: Invida nec vobis Purcellum terra reposcat, Questa decus secli, deliciasque breves Tam cito decessisse, modos cui singula debet Musa, prophana suos, religiosa suos: Vivit Io et vivat, dum vicina organa spirant, Dumque colet numeris turba canora Deum.
Of the following ode, it may be briefly observed, that it displays much conceit, and little pathos, although the introductory simile is beautifully worded.
ON
THE DEATH OF
Mr PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.
M ark how the lark and linnet sing, With rival notes They strain their warbling throats, To welcome in the spring. But in the close of night, When Philomel begins her heavenly lay, They cease their mutual spite, Drink in her music with delight, And, listening, silently obey.
II.
So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came; They sung no more, or only sung his fame. Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man: The godlike man, Alas! too soon retired, As he too late began. We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore; Had he been there, Their sovereign's fear Had sent him back before. The power of harmony too well they knew: He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere, And left no hell below.
III.
The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high, Let down the scale of music from the sky; They handed him along, And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung. Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice, Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice: Now live secure, and linger out your days; The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays, Nor know to mend their choice.
EPITAPH ON THE LADY WHITMORE.
This was perhaps Frances, daughter of Sir William Brooke, Knight of the Bath, and wife to Sir Thomas Whitmore, Knight-Baronet.
F air, kind, and true, a treasure each alone, A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one; Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost, Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost. Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join, Come first and offer at her sacred shrine; Pray but for half the virtues of this wife, Compound for all the rest, with longer life; And wish your vows, like hers, may be returned, So loved when living, and, when dead, so mourned.
EPITAPH
ON
Mrs MARGARET PASTON,
OF BURNINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.
This is an ancient and distinguished family in Norfolk. See Bloomfield's topographical account of that shire.
} { S o fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet, { So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit, { Require at least an age in one to meet. In her they met; but long they could not stay, 'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay. Heaven's image was in her so well exprest, Her very sight upbraided all the rest; Too justly ravished from an age like this, Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
John Powlet, fifth Marquis of Winchester, was remarkable for his steady loyalty to Charles I. He garrisoned for the king his fine castle at Basing, and underwent a siege of two years, from August 1643 to October 16th, 1645; on which day it was taken by Cromwell, by storm, after having been defended with great gallantry to the very last extremity. The Marquis had written, in every window of the house, with a diamond, the motto Aymez Loyaulté. The parliamentary leaders, incensed at this device, burned down this noble seat, (a conflagration which Cromwell imputes to accident,) and destroyed and plundered property to the amount of L. 200,000. The Marquis himself was made prisoner. The particulars of this memorable siege were printed at Oxford, in 1645; and Oliver's account of the storm is published in Collins's "Peerage," from a manuscript in the Museum. The Marquis of Winchester survived the Restoration; and, having died premier marquis of England in 1674, was buried at Englefield. This monument, upon which our author's verses are engraved, is made of black and white marble; and a compartment underneath the lines bears this inscription: "The Lady Marchioness Dowager, in testimony of her love and sorrow, gave this monument to the memory of a most affectionate, tender husband." On a flat marble stone, beneath the monument, is the following epitaph: "Here lieth interred the body of the most noble and mighty prince, John Powlet, Marquis of Winchester, Earl of Wiltshire, Baron of St John of Basing, first Marquis of England: A man of exemplary piety towards God, and of inviolable fidelity towards his sovereign; in whose cause he fortified his house of Basing, and defended it against the rebels to the last extremity. He married three wives: the first was Jane, daughter of Thomas, Viscount Savage, and of Elizabeth his wife, daughter and co-heir of Thomas Darcey, Earl of Rivers; by whom he had issue Charles, now Marquis of Winchester. His second wife was Honora, daughter of Richard Burgh, Earl of St Alban's and Clanricarde, and of Frances, his wife, daughter and heir of Sir Francis Walsingham, knight, and principal secretary of state to Queen Elizabeth; by whom he had issue four sons and three daughters. His last wife, who survived him, was Isabella, daughter of William, Viscount Stafford, second son of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, Earl Marshal of England, and of Mary his wife, sister and sole heir of Henry, Lord Stafford, who was the heir-male of the most high, mighty, and most noble Prince Edward, last Duke of Buckingham of that most illustrious name and family, by whom he had no issue. He died in the 77th year of his age, on the 5th of March, in the year of our Lord 1674.—By Edward Walker, Garter King of Arms."
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT OF THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
H e who, in impious times, undaunted stood, And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good; Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more Confirmed the cause for which he fought before, Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince, For what his earthly could not recompence. Pray, reader, that such times no more appear; Or, if they happen, learn true honour here. Ask of this age's faith and loyalty, Which, to preserve them, heaven confined in thee. Few subjects could a king like thine deserve; And fewer, such a king so well could serve. Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate! Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.
EPITAPH
ON
Sir PALMES FAIRBONE'S Tomb IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command he was mortally wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town, in the forty-sixth year of his age, October 24, 1680.
Y e sacred relics, which your marble keep, Here, undisturbed by wars, in quiet sleep; } { Discharge the trust, which, when it was below, { Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo, { And be the town's palladium from the foe. Alive and dead these walls he will defend: Great actions great examples must attend. The Candian siege his early valour knew, Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue. } { From thence returning with deserved applause, { Against the Moors his well-fleshed sword he draws; { The same the courage, and the same the cause. } { His youth and age, his life and death, combine, { As in some great and regular design, { All of a piece throughout, and all divine. } { Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright, { Like rising flames expanding in their height; { The martyr's glory crowned the soldier's fight. More bravely British general never fell, Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well; Which his pleased eyes beheld before their close, Followed by thousand victims of his foes.[95] To his lamented loss, for time to come, His pious widow consecrates this tomb.
ON
THE MONUMENT
OF A
FAIR MAIDEN LADY,
WHO DIED AT BATH,
AND IS THERE INTERRED.
This lady lies buried in the Abbey-Church at Bath. The lines are accompanied by the following inscription upon a monument of white marble: "Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard Frampton of Moreton, in Dorsetshire, Esq. and of Jane his wife, sole daughter of Sir Francis Cothington of Founthill, in Wilts, who was born January 1, 1676, and died, after seven weeks illness, on the 6th of September, 1698.
"This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and gratitude."
B elow this marble monument is laid All that heaven wants of this celestial maid. Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consigned; The mold was made on purpose for the mind: And she would lose, if, at the latter day, One atom could be mixed of other clay; Such were the features of her heavenly face, Her limbs were formed with such harmonious grace: So faultless was the frame, as if the whole Had been an emanation of the soul; Which her own inward symmetry revealed, And like a picture shone, in glass annealed; Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light; Too piercing, else, to be sustained by sight. Each thought was visible that rolled within; As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen. And heaven did this transparent veil provide, Because she had no guilty thought to hide. All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies, For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes. } { High though her wit, yet humble was her mind; { As if she could not, or she would not find { How much her worth transcended all her kind. Yet she had learned so much of heaven below, That when arrived, she scarce had more to know; But only to refresh the former hint, And read her Maker in a fairer print. So pious, as she had no time to spare For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer; Yet in such charities she passed the day, 'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray. A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows, Which passion could but curl, not discompose. } { A female softness, with a manly mind; { A daughter duteous, and a sister kind; { In sickness patient, and in death resigned.
UNDER
MR MILTON'S PICTURE,
BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST.
This inscription appeared under the engraving prefixed to Tonson's folio edition of the Paradise Lost, published by subscription, under the patronage of Somers, in 1688. Dryden was one of the subscribers. Atterbury, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, was active in procuring subscribers. See a letter of his to Tonson, Malone's Life of Dryden, p. 203.
Mr Malone regards Dryden's hexastich as an amplification of Selvaggi's distich, addressed to Milton while at Rome:
Græcia Mœonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem, Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.
T hree poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next, in majesty; in both, the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third, she joined the former two.