Volume 18 — AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR DRYDEN.

On a soft bank of camomel I sate, O’ershaded by two mournful yews; (Doubtless it was the will of fate I this retreat should chuse.) Where on delicious poetry I fed, Amazing thoughts chilled all my blood, And almost stopt the vital flood, As Dryden’s sacred verse I read. Whilst killing raptures seized my head, I shook, as if I had foreknown What all-commanding fate had done; What for our sovereign Dryden had designed, Till sleep o’erwhelmed my brain, as sorrow had my mind; To think that all the great, even he, must die, And here, in fame alone, have immortality. When in my dream the fatal muse, With hair dishevell’d, and in tears, Melpomene appears; Upon my throbbing heart her hand she laid, Her hand as cold as death, and thus she said,— “Least of my care, be calmed! No more just heaven accuse!

“Eternal fate has said,—He must remove; The bards triumphant wait for him above. To everlasting day and blest abodes (The seats of poets and of gods) He’s gone, to fill the throne Which none could fill but he alone; The glorious throne for him prepared; Of glorious acts the glorious, just reward. See, see, as he ascends on high, The sacred bards attending in the sky! So low do they descend To meet their now immortal friend! Immortal there above, and here below, As long as men shall wit and English know, The unequalled Dryden must be so, Immortal in his verse, in verse unequalled too.”— She said,—then disappear’d; when I Could plainly see all that was done on high.

I saw above an universal joy, Perfect without alloy; (So great as ne’er till then had been Since the sweet Waller entered in,) When all that sacred company Brought the triumphant bard from ours to heaven’s great jubilee; That was the occasion of his happiness, And of our sorrows, surely that the cause, Called hence heaven’s monarch’s praise to help to express, And to receive for that his own deserved applause. There wanted still one in the heavenly quire, Dryden alone was their desire, Whom for the sacred song th’ Almighty did inspire ’Twas pity to us that so long delayed His blest translation to eternal light; Or, otherwise may we not be afraid, ’Twas for the sins of some who durst presume to write; Who durst in verse, in sacred poetry, Even heaven’s own design bely, And damn themselves with utmost industry! For this may we not dread The mighty prophet’s taken from our head? And though the fate of these I fear, I in respect must venture here. A long and racking war was sent, Of common sins, a common punishment; To the unthinking crowd the only curse, Who feel no loss but in their purse: But ah! what loss can now be worse? The mighty Pan has left our mournful shore; The mighty Pan is gone, Dryden is here no more.

When to the blest bright region he was come, The vulgar angels gazed, and made him room: Each laureat monarch welcomes him on high, And to embrace him altogether fly: Then strait the happy guest is shown To his bright and lofty throne, Inferior there to none. A crown beset with little suns, whose rays Shoot forth in foliages resembling bays, Now on his head they place: Then round him all the sacred band Loudly congratulating stand: When after silence made, Thus the sweetest Waller said:— “Well hast thou merited, triumphant bard! For, once I knew thee militant below, When I myself was so; Dangerous thy post, the combat fierce and hard, Ignorance and rebellion still thy foe; But for those little pains see now the great reward! Mack-Flecknoe and Achitophel Can now no more disturb thy peace, Thy labours past, thy endless joys increase; The more thou hast endured, the more thou dost excel; And for the laurels snatched from thee below, Thou wear’st an everlasting crown upon thy hallowed brow.”

The bard, who next the new-born saint addrest, Was Milton, for his wonderous poem blest; Who strangely found, in his Lost Paradise, rest. “Great bard,” said he, “’twas verse alone Did for my hideous crime atone, Defending once the worst rebellion. A double share of bliss belongs to thee, For thy rich verse and thy firm loyalty; Some of my harsh and uncouth points do owe To thee a tuneful cadence still below. Thine was indeed the state of innocence, Mine of offence, With studied treason and self-interest stained, Till Paradise Lost wrought Paradise Regained.” He said:—when thus our English Abraham, (In heaven the second of that name, Cowley, as glorious there as sacred here in fame,) “Welcome, Aleides, to this happy place! Our wish, and our long expectation here, Makes thee to us more dear; Thou great destroyer of that monstrous race, Which our sad former seat did harass and disgrace, Be blest and welcomed with our praise! Thy great Herculean labours done, And all the courses of thy zodiac run, Shine here to us, a more illustrious sun! But see! thy brethren gods in poetry, The whole great race divine, Ready in thy applause to join, Who will supply what is defect in me.”

Rochester, once on earth a prodigy, A happy convert now on high, Here begins his wonderous lays, In the sainted poet’s praise. Fathomless Buckingham, smooth Orrery, The witty D’Avenant, Denham, Suckling too, Shakespeare, nature’s Kneller, who Nature’s picture likest drew, Each in their turn his praise pursue. His song elaborate Jonson next does try, On earth unused to eulogy; Beaumont and Fletcher sing together still, And with their tuneful notes the arched palace fill. The noble patron poet now does try, His wondrous Spenser to outvy. Drayton did next our sacred bard address, And sung above with wonderful success. Our English Ennius, he who gave To the great bard kind welcome to his grave, Chaucer, the mightiest bard of yore, Whose verse could mirth to saddest souls restore, Caressed him next, whilst his delighted eye Expressed his love, and thus his tongue his joy:— “Was I, when erst below,” said he, “In hopes so great a bard to see, As thou, my son, adopted unto me, And all this godlike race, some equal even to thee! O! ’tis enough.”—Here soft Orinda219 came And sprightly Afra,220 muses both on earth, Both burned here with a bright poetic flame, Which to their happiness above gave birth; Their charming songs his entertainment close, The mighty bard then, smiling, bowed, and rose.

Strait from his head each takes his laurel’d crown, And on the golden pavement casts it down: All prostrate fall before heaven’s high imperial throne, When the new saint begins his song alone; Wond’rous even there it was confest, Scarce to be equalled by the rest; Herbert nor Crashaw, though on earth divine, So sweetly could their numbers join! When, lo! the light of twenty thousand suns, All in one body, shining all at once, Darts from the imperial to this lower court; A light which they but hardly could support! Then the great anthem was begun, Which all the hallowed bards together sung; And by no choir of angels is outdone, But by the great seraphic choir alone, That day and night surround the awful throne of heaven’s eternal King; Even they themselves did the great chorus fill, And brought the grateful sounds to heaven’s high holiest hill.

My soul shook with the sacred harmony, which soon alarmed my heart; I fancied I was falling from on high, and wakened with a start: “Waked,” said I, “surely no; I did not sleep; Can they be dreams which such impressions make? My soul does still the blest ideas keep; And still, methinks, I see them, though awake! The other thrones too, which, though vacant, shone With greater glory than the sun, Come fresh into my mind; Which once will lose their lustre by their bards outdone, When filled with those for whom they are designed. Upon their fronts I saw the glittering names, All written in celestial flames. For Dorset what a palace did I see! For Montague! And what for Normandy! What glories wait for Wycherly! For Congreve, Southerne, Tate, Garth, Addison? For Stephney, Prior, and for Dennis too? What thrones are void, what joys prepared and due? The pleasant dear companion Cheek, Whom all the great although at midnight seek, This glorious wreath must wear, and endless joys pursue. And for Motteux, my Gallic friend, The like triumphant laurels wait; Though heaven, I hope, will send it very late, Ere they or he to their blest seats ascend. ’Tis in their verse, next his, that he must live, Next his their lines eternal fame can give; Then all the happiness on earth I know Is, that such godlike men as they are with us still below.”