ON MR. DRYDEN'S RELIGIO LAICI.

BY THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

BEGONE, you slaves, you idle vermin go,
Fly from the scourges, and your master know;
Let free impartial men from Dryden learn
Mysterious secrets of a high concern,
And weighty truths, solid convincing sense,
Explain'd by unaffected eloquence.
What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill?
Men still had faults, and men will have them still:
He that hath none, and lives as angels do,
Must be an angel; but what's that to you?

While mighty Lewis finds the Pope too great,
And dreads the yoke of his imposing seat,
Our sects a more tyrannic pow'r assume,
And would for scorpions change the rods of Rome;
That church detain'd the legacy divine;
Fanatics cast the pearls of heaven to swine:
What then have thinking honest men to do
But choose a mean between th' usurping two?

Nor can the Egyptian patriarch blame thy Muse, Which for his firmness does his heat excuse; Whatever councils have approved his creed, The preface sure was his own act and deed. Our church will have that preface read you'll say: 'Tis true: but so she will the Apocrypha; And such as can believe them freely may.

But did that God, (so little understood) Whose darling attribute is being good, From the dark womb of the rude chaos bring Such various creatures, and make man their king, Yet leave his favourite man, his chiefest care, More wretched than the vilest insects are?

O! how much happier and more safe are they?
If helpless millions must be doom'd a prey
To yelling furies, and for ever burn

In that sad place from whence is no return,
For unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they could not do!
The very fiends know for what crime they fell,
And so do all their followers that rebel:
If then a blind well-meaning Indian stray,
Shall the great gulph be show'd him for the way?
For better ends our kind Redeemer died,
Or the fall'n angels' rooms will be but ill supplied.
That Christ, who at the great deciding day
For he declares what he resolves to say)
Will damn the goats for their ill-natured faults,
And save the sheep for actions, not for thoughts,
Hath too much mercy to send men to hell
For humble charity and hoping well.
To what stupidity are zealots grown,

Whose inhumanity profusely shown

Great Dryden next? whose tuneful Muse affords
The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.
Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, she moves our smiles and tears,
If satire or heroic strains she writes,
Her hero pleases, and her satire bites.
From her no harsh unartful numbers fall;
She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd should decay in thee,
Did not the Muses' other hope appear!
Harmonious Congreve! and forbid our fear;
Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promised more;
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive.

ON ALEXANDER'S FEAST:

OR,

THE POWER OF MUSIC.

AN ODE.

From Mr. Pope's Essay on Criticism, I. 376. HEAR how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While at each change the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love: Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow. Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdued by sound. The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

CHARACTER OF DRYDEN,

FROM AN ODE OF GRAY's.

BEHOLD where Dryden's less presumptuous car
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore
Bright eyed fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more-

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit

I'll err at least on the securer side,

A convert free from malice and from pride.

FROM MR. ADDISON'S ACCOUNT

OF THE ENGLISH POETS

BUT see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming even in years.

Nor the pride nor ample pinion
That the Theban Eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air;

Yet oft before his infant-eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great

OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITHOPHEL.

TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good;
Where, though the Nine their beauteous strokes
And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, [repeat,
It looks as if they strook them at a heat.
So all serenely great, so just refined,
Like angels' love to human seed inclined,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms rowl,
So brightly fierce, each syllable's a soul.
'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;

'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom even the Fanatics altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arose,
Filed off the rust, and the right party chose.
Nor Sir be shock'd at what the gloomy say;
Turn not your feet too inward nor too splay.

'Tis gracious all, and great; push on your theme;
Lean your grieved head on David's diadem:
David, that rebel Israel's envy moved;
David, by God and all good men beloved.
The beauties of your Absalom excel,

But more the charms of charming Annabel:

[night.

Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,
Cheerful as summer's noons and chaste as winter's
Of Annabel the Muses' dearest theme;
Of Annabel, the angel of my dream.
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,
And to your masterpiece these shadows send.

NAT. LEE.

TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR

OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITHOPHEL.

THOUGHT, forgive my sin, the boasted fire
Of poets' souls did long ago expire;
Of folly or of madness did accuse
[Muse;
The wretch that thought himself possess'd with
Laugh'd at the god within that did inspire
With more than human thoughts the tuneful quire.
But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dream
Of rhymers slumbering by the Muses' stream.
Some livelier spark of Heaven, and more refined
From earthly dross, fills the great Poet's mind.
Witness these mighty and immortal lines,
Through each of which th' informing genius shines.
Scarce a diviner flame inspired the king,
Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing:
Not David's self could in a nobler verse
His gloriously-offending son rehearse,
Though in his breast the prophet's fury met,
The father's fondness, and the poet's wit.

Here all consent in wonder and in praise,
And to the unknown Poet altars raise;
Which thou must needs accept with equal joy,
As when Æneas heard the wars of Troy,
(Wrapp'd up himself in darkness and unseen)
Extoll'd with wonder by the Tyrian Queen.
Sure thou already art secure of fame,
Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name.
What father else would have refused to own
So great a son as godlike Absalom?

R. DUKE.

TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR

OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITHOPHEL.

HAIL heaven-born Muse! hail every sacred page!
The glory of our isle and of our age:

Th' inspiring sun to Albion draws more nigh,
The North at length teems with a work to vie
With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty.
While Pindus' lofty heights our Poet sought,
(His ravish'd mind with vast ideas fraught)
Our language fail'd beneath his rising thought.
This checks not his attempt: for Maro's mines
He drains of all their gold t' adorn his lines,
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines.

ix

The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her flinty breast dissolved into a tide:
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as sense, invents,
And with his poem a new speech presents.
Hail then, thou matchless Bard, thou great Un-
known!

That give your country fame, yet shun your own!
In vain; for every where your praise you find,
And not to meet it, you must shun mankind.
Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws,
And even the factious give your verse applause,
Whose lightning strikes to ground their idol cause
The cause, for whose dear sake they drank a flood
Of civil gore, nor spared the Royal blood;
The cause, whose growth to crush, our prelates

wrote

In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one stab of your keen satire dies;
Before your sacred lines their shatter'd Dragon lies.
Oh! if unworthy we appear to know

The sire to whom this lovely birth we owe :
Denied our ready homage to express,
And can at best but thankful be by guess;
This hope remains; may David's godlike mind,
(For him 'twas wrote) the unknown Author find;
And having found, shower equal favours down
On wit so vast as could oblige a crown.

N. TATE.

UPON THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDAL.
A SATIRE.

ONCE more our awful Poet arms t' engage
The threatening hydra-faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Muse attends him to the field.
By Art and Nature for this task design'd,
Yet modestly the fight he long declined;
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour.
His sovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Waked his avenging genius to his aid.

Bless'd Muse! whose wit with such a cause was

crown'd,

And bless'd the cause that such a champion found!
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black Sedition in each quarter galls:
Yet, like a prince with subjects forced to engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less-infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse:
Their wretched dogg'rel rhymers forth they bring,
To snarl and bark against the poet's king;
A crew that scandalize the nation more
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style;
A style so keen, as e'en from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great Bard! what tribute we can raise ;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.

So, sacred Poet! so thy numbers flow,
Sinewy, yet mild as happy lovers woo;
Strong, yet harmonious too as planets move,
Yet soft as down upon the wings of Love.
How sweet does Virtue in your dress appear!
How much more charming when much less severe ?
Whilst you our senses harmlessly beguile,
With all th' allurements of your happy style,
Y' insinuate loyalty with kind deceit,
And into sense th' unthinking many cheat.

So the sweet Thracian with his charming lyre
Into rude nature virtue did inspire;

So he the savage herd to reason drew,

Yet scarce so sweet, so charmingly, as you.

O that you would, with some such powerful charm, Enervate Albion to just valour warm!

Whether much-suffering Charles shall theme afford,

Or the great deeds of godlike James' sword,
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again
Another fleet might pass the subject main,
Another Edward lead the Britons on,
Or such an Ossory as you did moan:
While in such numbers you, in such a strain,
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let false Achithophel the rout engage,
Talk easy Absalom to rebel rage:
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,
Or modest Corah more new plots reveal;
Whilst constant to himself, secure of Fate,
Good David still maintains the royal state.
Though each in vain such various ills employs,
Firmly he stands, and e'en those ills enjoys;
Firm as fair Albion, 'midst the raging main,
Surveys encircling danger with disdain.
In vain the waves assault the unmoved shore,
In vain the winds with mingled fury roar,

Fair Albion's beauteous cliffs shine whiter than

before.

Nor shalt thou move, though Hell thy fall conspire,

Though the worse rage of Zeal's fanatic fire:
Thou best, thou greatest, of the British race,
Thou only fit to fill great Charles' place!

Ah wretched Britons! ah too stubborn isle!
Ah stiff-neck'd Israel on bless'd Canaan's soil!
Are those dear proofs of Heaven's indulgence vain,
Restoring David and his gentle reign?

Is it in vain thou all the goods dost know,
Auspicious stars on mortals shed below,

While all thy streams with milk, thy lands with honey, flow?

No more fond Isle! no more thyself engage
In civil fury and intestine rage:

THOSE gods the pious Ancients did adore,
They learn'd in verse devoutly to implore,
Thinking it rude to use the common way
Of talk, when they did to such beings pray.
Nay, they that taught religion first, thought fit
In verse its sacred precepts to transmit:
So Solon, too, did his first statutes draw,
And every little stanza was a law
By these few precedents we plainly see
The primitive design of poetry;

Which, by restoring to its native use,

You generously have rescued from abuse.

Whilst your loved Muse does in sweet numbers

sing,

She vindicates her God and godlike King.

Atheist, and rebel too, she does oppose;

(God and the King have always the same foes.)
Legions of verse you raise in their defence,
And write the factious to obedience:
You the bold Arian to arms defy,

A conquering champion for the Deity

Against the whigs' first parents, who did dare
To disinherit God Almighty's Heir.

And what the hot-brain'd Arian first began
Is carried on by the Socinian,

Who still associates to keep God a man.

But 'tis the Prince of Poets' task alone

T' assert the rights of God's and Charles' throne, Whilst vulgar poets purchase vulgar fame

By chaunting Chloris' or fair Phillis' name;

Whose reputation shall last as long

As fops and ladies sing the amorous song.

A nobler subject wisely they refuse,

The mighty weight would crush their feeble Muse.
So story tells, a painter once would try
With his bold hand to limn a deity:

And he, by frequent practising that part,
Could draw a minor god with wondrous art;

But when great Jove did to the workman sit,
The Thunderer such horror did beget,
That put the frighted artist to a stand,
And made his pencil drop from's baffled hand.