Volume 18 — No. XI. EXTRACT FROM POETÆ BRITANNICI. A POEM, SATIRICAL AND PANEGYRICAL.

L—gh aim’d to rise above great Dr—-n’s height, But lofty Dryden kept a steady flight. Like Dædalus, he times with prudent care His well-waxed wings, and waves in middle air. Crowned with the sacred snow of reverend years, Dryden above the ignobler crowd appears, Raises his laurelled head, and, as he goes, O’er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows. The native spark, which first advanced his name, By industry he kindled to a flame. Then to a different coast his judgment flew, He left the old world behind, and found a new. On the strong columns of his lasting wit, Instructive Dryden built, and peopled it. In every page delight and profit shines; Immortal sense flows in his mighty lines. His images so strong and lively be, I hear not words alone, but substance see, The proper phrase of our exalted tongue To such perfection from his numbers sprung; His tropes continued, and his figures fine, All of a piece throughout, and all divine. Adapted words and sweet expressions move Our various passions, pity, rage, and love. I weep to hear fond Antony complain In Shakespeare’s fancy, but in Virgil’s strain. Though for the comic, others we prefer, Himself the judge; nor does his judgment err. But comedy, ’tis thought, can never claim The sounding title of a poem’s name. For raillery, and what creates a smile, Betrays no lofty genius, nor a style. That heavenly heat refuses to be seen In a town character, and comic mien. If we would do him right, we must produce The Sophoclean buskin; when his muse With her loud accents filled the listning ear, And peals applauding shook the theatre. They fondly seek, great name, to blast thy praise, Who think that foreign banks produced thy bays. Is he obliged to France, who draws from thence, By English energy, their captive sense? Though Edward and famed Henry warred in vain, Subduing what they could not long retain, Yet now, beyond our arms, the muse prevails, And poets conquer, when the hero fails. This does superior excellence betray: O could I write in thy immortal way! If Art be Nature’s scholar, and can make Such great improvements, Nature must forsake Her ancient style; and in some grand design, } She must her own originals decline, } And for the noblest copies follow thine. } This all the world must offer to thy praise, And this Thalia sang in rural lays. As sleep to weary drovers on the plain, As a sweet river to a thirsty swain, Such divine Dryden’s charming verses show, Please like the river, like the river flow. When his first years in mighty order ran, And cradled infancy bespoke the man, Around his lips the waxen artists hung, And breathed ambrosial odours as they sung. In yellow clusters from their hives they flew, And on his tongue distilled eternal dew: Thence from his mouth harmonious numbers broke, More sweet than honey from the knotted oak; More smooth than streams, that from a mountain glide, Yet lofty as the top from whence they slide. Long he possest the hereditary plains, Beloved by all the herdsmen, and the swains, Till he resigned his flock, opprest with years, And olden’d in his woe, as well as fears. Yet still, like Etna’s mount, he kept his fire, And look’d, like beauteous roses on a brier: He smiled, like Phœbus in a stormy morn, And sung, like Philomel against a thorn.