To the MEMORY OF Mr. DRYDEN.  
A POEM.   

TO THE MEMORY OF M R. DRYDEN.  
A POEM.  
Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit,  
Ut ad id unum natum diceres quodcunque ageret.  
LONDON, Printed for Charles Brome, at the Gun, at the West-End of St. Paul's Church, 1700.   

TO THE MEMORY OF M R. DRYDEN. A POEM.  

WHen Mortals formed of common Clay, expire,  
These vulgar Souls an Elegy require:  
But some Hero of more heavenly Frame,  
Exerts his Valour, and extends his Fame;  
Below the Spheres impatient to abide,  
With universal Joy is Deified.  
Thus our triumphant Bard from hence is fled;  
But let us never, never say he's dead;  
Let Poetasters make the Muses mourn,  
And common place it o'er his sacred Urn;  
The public Voice exalts him to the Sky,  
And Fate decrees him Immortality,  
Ordains instead of Tears or mournful Hearse,  
His Apotheosis be sung in Verse.  
Great Poets sure are formed of heavenly Race,  
And with great Hero's justly claim a Place.   

As Caesar's Pen did Caesar best commend,  
And all the Eulogies of Rome transcend;  
So Dryden's Muse alone, like Phoebus' bright,  
Outshines all human Praise or borrowed Light,  
To form his Image, and to make it true,  
There must be Art, and Inspiration too:  
Auspic'ous Stars had doomed him to the Trade,  
By Nature framed, by Art a Poet made:  
Thus Maro's Words and Sense in him we see,  
And Ovid's teeming Vein of Poesy.  
In his vast Miscellan'ous Works we find,  
What charms at once; and edifies the Mind:  
His pregnant Muse has in the Offspring shown,  
What's rare for Use, or Beauty to be known:  
In monumental everlasting Verse,  
Epitomised he grasped the Universe.  
No Power but his could tune a British Lyre  
To sweeter Notes than any Tuscan Choir,  
Teutonick Words to animate and raise,  
Strong, shining Musical as Attic Lays;  
Rude Matter indisposed he formed Polite,  
His Muse seemed rather to create than write.  
His nervous Eloquence is brighter far  
Than florid Pulpit, or the noisy Bar.  
His Per'ods shine harmon'ous in the close,  
As if a Muse presided in his Prose;  
Yet unaffected plain, but strong his Style,  
It overflows to fructify, like Nile.  
The God of Wit conspires with all the Nine  
To make the Orator and Poet join.   

We're charmed when he the Lady or the Friend,  
Pleased, in Majestic Numbers to commend.  
The Panegiric flows in Streams profuse,  
When Worth or Beauty sublimates the Muse.  
His Notes are moving, powerful and strong,  
As Orph'us Lyre, or as a Syren's Song.  
Sweet as the happy Idumean Fields,  
And fragrant as the Flowers that Tempe yields.  
Thrice happy she to whom such Tribute's paid,  
And has such Incense at her Altar laid:  
A Sacrifice that might with Envy move,  
Jove's Consort, or the charming Queen of Love.  
His lasting Lines will give a sacred Name,  
(Eternal Records in the Book of Fame)  
His Favourites are doomed by Jove's Decree.  
To share with him in Imortality.   

The wealthy Muse on innate Mines could live,  
Tho' no Maecenas any Smile would give;  
His Light not burrowed, but was all his own;  
His Rays were bright and warm without the Sun.   

Pictures (weak Images of him) are sold,  
The French are proud to have the Head for Gold:  
The Echo of his Verse has charmed their Ear;  
O could they comprehend the Sound they hear!  
Who hug the Cloud caress an airy Face,  
What would they give the Goddess to embrace?   

The Characters his steady Muse could frame,  
Are more than like, they are so much the same;  
The Pencil and the Mirror faintly live,  
'Tis but the Shadow of a Life they give;  
Like Resurrect'on from the silent Grave  
He the numeric Soul and Body gave.   

No Art, no Hand but his could e'er bring home,  
The noblest choicest Flowers of Greece and Rome;  
Transplant them with sublimest Art and Toil,  
And make them flourish in a British Soil.  
Whatever Ore he cast into his Mould  
He did the dark Philosophy unfold,  
And by a touch converted all to Gold.   

With Epic Feet who ere can steady run,  
May drive the fi'ry Char'ot of the Sun,  
Must neither soar too high, nor fall too low;  
Must neither burn like Fire, nor freeze like Snow.  
All Ages mighty Conquerors have known.  
Who Courage and their Power in Arms have shown:  
Greece knew but one, and Rome the Mant'an Swain,  
Who durst engage in lofty Epic Strain  
Heroics here were Lands unknown before,  
Our great Columbus first descried the Shoar.   

No Prophet moved the Pass'ons of the Mind,  
With Sov'rain Power and Force so unconfined:  
We sympathised with his Poetic Rage,  
In lofty Buskins when he ruled the Stage;  
He raised our Love, our Hope, Despairs, and Fears,  
Dissolved in Joy we were, or drowned in Tears.   

When juster Indignation roused his Hate,  
Insipid Rhymes to lash, or Knaves of State;  
Each Line's a Sting, and every Sting a Death,  
As if their Fate depended on his Breath.  
Like Sunbeams swift, his si'ry Shafts were sent,  
Or Lightning darted from the Firmament.  
No warmer Clime, no Age, or Muse Divine,  
In pointed satire could our Bard outshine.   

His inexhausted Force knew no decay,  
In spite of Years his Muse grew young and gay,  
And vigorous, like the Patriarch of old,  
His last born joseph cast in finest Mould:  
This Son of Sixty Nine surpassing fair,  
With any elder Offspring may compare;  
Has Charms in Courts of Monarches to be seen,  
Caressed and cherished by a longing Queen.   

Great Prophets oft extend their just Command,  
Receive the Tribute of a Foreign Land;  
When in their own ingrateful native Ground  
Few just, admiring Votaries they found.  
But when these Godlike Men their Clay resign,  
Pale Envy's laid a Victim at their Shrine;  
United Mortals do their Worth proclaim,  
And Altars raise to their eternal Fame.   

Wealth, Beauty, force of Wit, without Alloy,  
In Dryden's heavenly Muse profusely lay;  
Which mighty Charms did never yet combine,  
In any single Deity to shine:  
But were dispensed more thriftily between  
Jove's Wife, his Daughter, and the Cypr'an Queen.   

The Nymphs recorded in his artful Lays,  
Produce the grateful Homage of their Praise;  
Assisted in their Vows by Powers Divine,  
Offer their sacred Incense at his Shrine.   

The Spher's exalt their Music to commend,  
The Poet's Master and the Muse's Friend;  
In Consort form Seraphic Notes to sing,  
Of Numbers, and of Harmony the King.   

In this triumphant Scene to act her Part,  
Nature's attended by her Handmaid Art:  
Resounding Echo with her mimic Voice,  
Concurs to make the Universe Rejoice.   

Let every Tongue and Pen the Poet sing,  
Who mounts Parnassus top with lofty Wing;  
Whose splendid Muse has Crowns of Laurel won,  
That brave the shining Beauties of the Sun.   

His Lines (those sacred Relics of the Mind)  
Not by the Laws of Fate, or War confined,  
In spite of Flames will Everlasting prove,  
Devouring Rust of Time, or angry jove.   
FINIS.