Eleonora: A PANEGYRICAL POEM: Dedicated to the MEMORY Of the Late COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.  
Written by Mr. DRYDEN.  
— Superas evadere ad auras,  
Hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci, quos aequus amavit  
Juppiter, aut ardens evexit ad oethera virtus;  
Diis geniti potuere.  Virgil Aeneid. l. 6. 
LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-Lane, near Fleetstreet. 1692.  
Where complete Sets of Mr. Dryden's Works are Sold: The Plays being put   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Earl of Abingdon, etc.  
MY LORD,  
THE 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 Shipbord 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 sly 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 a while and gather breath: For the Doctors give me a sad assurance, that my Disease 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 swom 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 Judgement 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 Panegyrique. 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 Pinnions 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 Donn 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 Anniverssaries; 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 greatefully 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 exteriours 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 Subscr●ving mine to this Poem, I may live by the Goddess, and transmit my Name to Posterity by the memory of Hers. 'Tis no flattery, to assure Your Lordship, that she is remembered in the pre●ent 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 thank 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 tyre 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 Talon is Satire; if it be so, 'tis 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 'tis but just they should reap each other in Lampoons. You, my Lord, who have the Character of Honour, though 'tis not my Happiness to know You, may stand aside, with the small Remainders of the English Nobility, truly such, and unhurt yourselves, yourselves 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.  

AS, when some Great and Gracious Monarch dies, 
The ducti 〈…〉   
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, than 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 th' extremest parts;  
With eyes overflowing, 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 nursed  
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 wondrous 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 th' 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 th' Afflicted came;  
The Hunger-starved, the Naked, and the Lame;  
Want and Diseases fled before her Name.  
For zeal like hers, 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 case 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, 
Of her prudent Management.   
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:  
Taught from above, his Magazines to frame;  
That Famine was prevented ere it came.  
Thus Heaven, though All-sufficient, shows a thrift  
In his Oeconomy, 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 nursed;  
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 th' excess of Goodness, into Sin.   

These Virtues raised her Fabric to the Sky; 
Of her 〈…〉 ility.   
For that which is next Heaven, is Charity.  
But, as high Turrets, for their Ay'ry 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 consc'ious of what all admire,  
And not be vain, advances Virtue high:  
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 her Piety.   
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 mod'rately 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 p●ay'd 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 blessed Angels exercise above,  
Varied with Sacred Hymns, and Acts of Love;  
Such Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys;  
Even 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 Quires, 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; 
Of her various Virtues.   
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 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 Heroick comprehends 'em 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 downward 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;  
Th' Occasion but exerted that, or this.   

A Wife as tender, and as true withal, 
Of her Conjugal Vi●tues.   
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 accursed;  
As beautcous, 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 'em 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 
Of her 〈◊〉 to her Children.   
Was not more fruitful, or more kind than she:  
Each under other by degrees they grew;  
A goodly Perspective of distant view:  
Anchises looked not with so pleased a Face  
In numb'ring o'er his future Roman Race,  
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 Heav'enly Minds may suit.   

Her pious love excelled to all she bore; 
〈…〉   
New Objects only multiplied it more.  
And as the Chosen found the perly 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 th'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 th'impression 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 penned,  
Unable to contain her, sought a vent,  
To issue out, and in some friendly breast  
Discharge her Treasures, and securely rest.  
T'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 courser place:  
Where Pomp and Ceremonies entered not;  
Where Greatness was shut out, and Buis'ness well forgot.   

This is th'imperfect draught; but short as far  
As the true height and bigness of a Star  
Exceeds the Measures of th'Astronomer.  
She shines above we know, but in what place,  
How near the Throne, and heavens Imperial Face,  
By our weak Optics is but vainly guest;  
Distance and Altitude conceal the rest.   

Tho 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 Tiumph was allowed,  
The Consul was constrained his Pomp to crowd;  
And so the swift Procession hurried on,  
That all, though not distinctly, might be shown;  
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;  
Moment's 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 blessed 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 thirti'th Page;  
And with a pious fear begin to doubt  
The Piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.  
But 'twas her Saviour's time; and, could there be  
A Copy near th' 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 expense.  
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. 
Her prepa-redness to die.   
Even on that day, in all her Trim prepared;  
As early notice she from Heaven had heard,  
And some descending Courtier, 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 
She died on Whitsunday night.   
Clothed all in white, the Liv'ry of the Day:  
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 show,  
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 Carr, on the third Errand sent.   

O happy Soul! if thou canst view from high, 
Apostrophe to her Soul.   
Where thou art all Intelligence, all Eye,  
If looking up to God, or down to us,  
Thou findest, 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'em, 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 
Epiphonema: or close of the Poem.   
This humble Tribute of no vulgar Muse:  
Who, not by Cares, or Wants, or Age depressed,  
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 even to draw the Picture of thy Mind,  
Is satire on the most of Humane 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.   
FINIS.