●ohn Dryden, Esq  
LUCTUS BRITANNICI: OR THE TEARS OF THE British Muses; FOR THE DEATH OF JOHN DRYDEN, Esq LATE Poet Laureate to Their Majesties, K. Charles and K. james the Second.  
WRITTEN By the most Eminent Hands in the two Famous Universities, and by several Others.  
For even when Death dissolve's our Humane Frame,  
The Soul returns to Heaven, from whence it came,  
Earth keep's the Body, Verse preserves the Fame.  Mr. Dryden, in his Epistle to his Kinsman, in his Fables Ancient and Modern. 
LONDON: Printed for Henry Playford, in the Temple-Change, and Abel Roper, at the Black-Boy in Fleetstreet: And Sold by john Nutt, near Stationer's- Hall. 1700.   

TO William Stephens, Esq Of Barton, in the Isle of Wight.  
SIR,  
THE great Worth of the Deceased, who is the Lamented Subject of the following Poems, and the great value You had for His inestimable Composures, will, We hope, render the Present which is made to You of 'em, more acceptable. You have too great a knowledge of His Merit, to want any thing to be said here in its behalf, and are so unwilling to hear any Panegyric on Your own, that We shall omit the Common way of Dedications. And, since it is no News to those who have the Honour of Your Acquaintance, to be told, You are the Delight of the Country You live in; that Your Temper is without Affectation, Your Behaviour Courteous; Your Generosity bounded with Discretion; and that You have all the Politeness of the City in an Island so remote from it. We shall only beg the favour of Your Patronage for what is Consecrated to the Memory of a Gentleman, who when Living, deserved more than one Maecenas, and beg leave to Subscribe,  
SIR, Your most Humble, and most Obedient Servants, Henry Playford. Abel Roper.   

The Booksellers to the READER.  
THough the Gentlemen who have contributed to this Excellent Collection stand in need of no Advocates to Vindicate what they have Written: Yet the Reflections of some who decried the Design, because they had not concern in it, and the Malice of others, who gave it out for an Vn-correct and Trisling Performance, renders a defence of it wholly Necessary. The Reader will soon be satisfied, that the Care which has been taken in Compiling this Volume, has been more than has hitherto been usual in Collections of this Nature, and will agree with us, that justice has been done to the Great Man they are written in Honour of. As the Gentlemen whom we have entrusted with the Supervisal and Choice of the several Poems, have had our Thanks, so we question not, but they will have those of the Reader▪  
And if some Gentlemen among the many others, whose Verses are not inserted, should take it amiss, we can excuse ourselves no other way, than by giving them to understand, we are satisfied of the judgement of those Learned Gentlemen, who did us the favour of making Choice of the most Valuable Performances, though they may perhaps call it in question, because it has run Counter to theirs.  H. P. A. R.  

LUCTUS BRITANNICI.  

To the MEMORY of0 JOHN DRYDEN, Esq  

WHEN Kings or Poets (greater Monarches) die,  
(For even they must yield to Destiny)  
Who can refuse a Tribute to their Hearse?  
A grateful Tribute of a weeping Verse?   

When Poets fall, Death strikes a general Blow,  
And Kings and Kingdoms share the Mighty Woe;  
They and their Deeds together would decay,  
Their Kingdoms too now flourishing, and gay,  
Must shortly yield to some fierce Enemy,  
And low in Ruins and Oblivion lie,  
Were not some pitying Poet nigh.   

Troy still remains a Foil to envious Age,  
And dares the Graecian's Power and Goddess' Rage;  
Embalmed in Sacred Rhimes its Heroes live,  
Nor shall even Time their Memory survive:  
But Greece no more this Noble Song shall boast,  
And Rome's last Refuge is in Maro lost:  
Rome governed still in that harmonious Song;  
But now the Glory does to us belong.  
The Mighty Dryden bears aloft the Prize,  
Raised on the Mantuan Swan away he flies,  
Sung his last Song, and mounted to the Skies.   

Ye Sons of Art! one farewel Verse bestow,  
If yet your Griefs a calm of Thought allow.  
Numbers perhaps your Sorrows may assuage;  
Let Dryden then the pensive Muse engage;  
Dryden!— the Wonder of a wondrous Age.  
Dryden! The Charms of whose commanding Pen,  
Immortalised the best and worst of Men.  
He raised forgotten Heroes from their Graves,  
And Re-inthroned, whom Death had deemed her Slaves:  
Fly trembling Ghost!— th' incestuous Theban raves;  
The frighted Laius hears, and dares not stay,  
But back to Acheron he wings his wondering way.   

Even now the Roman Anthony repines,  
And the scorned Globe for Love ambitiously resigns:  
While busy Statesmen against their Monarch's plot,  
Achitophel shall never be forgot.   

Nor Cromwell e'er shall feel the force of Time;  
Now he may justly glory in his Crime,  
Condemned to Greatness by thy greater Rhyme.  
Preposterous Kindness!— Sh—ll too in Thee  
Is handed down to late Posterity.   

Thou didst the Greek and Roman Mines explore,  
Refin'dst and purifi'dst the base Oar,  
Before thou land'st it on the British Shore.  
Thou with new Flames didst Ovid's Breast inspire;  
Thou charm'dst when e'er thou tun'dst the Roman Lyre;  
Didst with more awful Rage the Satirists fire;  
Thou chac'dst the Clouds that did their Thoughts obscure,  
And mad'st their Streams more Crystalline and pure.  
Thou'st taught Lucretius a far Nobler Song,  
His Numbers smother, and his Proofs more strong.  
Theocritus and all the Bards of old,  
Compelled by Thee their Mysteries unfold.   

But stop my Muse! unable to relate  
His juster Glories, let us mourn his Fate.  
To sing his Praises gives but weak Relief;  
The greater was his Praise, the greater is our Grief.   

When Years and Cares did Ovid's Breast invade,  
His Laurels faded as his Youth decayed,   

Age too, th' Achaean Muse betrayed.  
But Dryden still stemmed this unequal Tide,  
Did over these threatening Waves in Triumph ride,  
Laughed at their Envy, and exposed their Pride.  
Not Age's Frost could thy brisk Spirits bind,  
Or chill the active Vigour of thy Mind.   

In vain did baffled Age pursue,  
Whilst Eaglelike, thou didst thy Bloom renew.  
Thy powerful Nature felt no slow Decay;  
But thy (mourned) Night was glorious as thy Day.   

Farewell bright Shade! and Triumph in the Grave;  
Poets in Death their truest Glories have.  
The well-placed Laurel, which did once adorn  
Thy aged Brow, shall thence no more be torn:  
Untouched it shall around thy Temples spread;  
Kings Crowned thee living; but Fate Crowned thee dead.   Ch. Vi.  

On this Collection of POEMS upon the Death of Mr. Dryden.  
THO' well we know this Monument we frame,  
Can nothing add to his Immortal Name,  
Yet when a Theme so noble doth invite  
Our grateful Pens, who can forbear to write?  
'Tis true that Dryden's worth there's none so well  
As Dryden's self in his own Works can tell;  
But still these Essays this new Knowledge raise,  
That as his Merits far exceed our Praise,  
So, tho' remorseless Fate did never yield  
For Fancy's various Flights a larger Field;  
Yet, He, by Sense and Judgement raised, more fit  
A Master was than Subject is of Wit.  X. Z.  

On the DEATH of Mr. DRYDEN.  By a Person of QUALITY. 

A Dieu! Harmonious Dryden, and receive  
The last poor Tribute Poetry can give.  
Adieu! Thou Glory of our Isle, Adieu!  
A long: Farewell to Poetry and YOU.  
With You the sweetness of our Muses dies:  
Deep in Your Tomb the British Genius lies:  
You were our Muse's darling, every Page  
Of Yours she blessed: Nor could the Wrongs of Age,  
Weaken your Vigour, nor your Warmth assuage.  
But now for You she droops, can scarce rehearse  
Some wretched Numbers to attend Your Hearse.  
In every Strain, in every Note we hear  
Sad Melancholy Sounds of black Despair.  
Not such as when flushed with Diviner Rage,  
She grew a Match for Virgil's Sacred Page:  
Such, as when late, on Tyber's Banks she stood,  
And with a decent Horror died the Field with Blood.  
Where in each Page engaging Hero's join,  
And Great Aeneas fight's in every Line.  
All this we own to You, Ungrateful then,  
If Tears and Your Just Praises we refrain.   

For You our Virgins Mourn; Your Moving Strains,  
Were sweet as evening Breezes on the Plains;  
Soft as the tender Sighs that fan Desire;  
Kind as the first approach of Amorous Fire.  
Your gentle Numbers every Heart could move,  
Inspire soft Thoughts, and melt us into Love.  
Yet there is not a Soldier in our Isle,  
But shows a Manly Sorrow at Your PILE.  
In You, Secure of Fame, he bravely fought;  
The Hero Conquered when the Poet Wrote:  
He knew your Pen would well reward his Wars,  
And give a Noble Recompense for honest Scars▪   

Vice from Your satire always Vanquished fled,  
Your angry Numbers struck the Monster Dead:  
Your happy Pen all Impious Factions quelled,  
After you Wrote, no Absolom Rebelled.  
Great juvenal amidst the Shades below,  
Was pleased, to see himself Revived in You.  
He Smiled, and in Elysium gave Applause,  
To see so Great a Second in the Cause:   

What ever heretofore old Rome Admired,  
When Terence, Virgil, Horace, lay Inspired;  
When Great Lucretius formed an Infant World,  
Of Justling Atoms in Confusion hurled:  
What e'er sweet Ovid's Softness could Inspire;  
What e'er the kind Tibullus' Amorous Fire,  
We read in You. Why then should our Esteem  
Be less for Dryden, than was Rome's for them?  
Shall we not Grieve? No, it shall ne'er be said  
Britain's Ungrateful, when Her Poet's Dead.  
Behold, the Patrons of our Isle appear,  
To Praise the Poet, and Adorn the Bier;  
With Pompous Sorrow to the Tomb they go,  
Mix Praise with Tears, Magnificence with Woe;  
And o'er his Urn erect a Noble Frame,  
Worthy the Poet's and the Patron's Name.   
june 1st. Oxon▪   

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq  

WHilst every Tongue, and every Pen's employed  
To tell the Nation what we once Enjoyed,  
My mournful Muse shall with the rest, Admire,  
With equal Grief, though not with equal Fire:  
Each Mourner must his proper Office keep;  
Their business is to Praise, and mine to Weep:  
But, Ah! what Tongue, what Pen can ever show  
This fatal Loss, this dismal Scene of Woe!  
Mute is that Voice! and mute those Heavenly Lays!  
Whose wondrous Harmony alone could raise  
An equal Monument to Dryden's Praise!  
In His own Ve●e, how Glorious would he shine!  
The Subject and the Praises both Divine!  
Then might we Wit in true Perfection see,  
Where Thoughts and Subject mutually agree;  
Where brightest Language with just Numbers me●t  
With Virgil's Conduct, and with Pindar's Heat;  
Like Horace, Moving, and like Ovid, Sweet:  
Such happy Wonders did his Generous Muse,  
In every Page, and every Line Infuse.  
When Young, he wrote with all the sense of Age,  
Each sparkling Thought was Still, Sedate and Sage;  
When Old, was fired with all His youthful Rage.  
When his bold Muse attempts the Tragic Strain,  
How noble was his Style! how rich his Vein!  
Each Play he gave us, was a finished Piece,  
And rivalled the Triumvirate of Greece.  
Then He transported us with gay Delight;  
But when he Pleased, could as severely By't.  
His piercing Rhyme could smartly ridicule  
The Factious Senator, and Scribbling Fool:  
How true he levelled his unerring Wit,  
Where every Fault, each darling Vice was hit!  
His Muse and Mind both the same Dress did wear,  
Sharp, yet not Rough, Serene, and yet Severe.  
When the bright Fair adorned his Charming Song,  
How smoothly did His Numbers glide along!  
In what soft Order did his Periods Move!  
Like the mild Transports of Seraphic Love:  
How easily into Harmony they fell,  
We all may wondering view, but who can tell?  
Tell me ye Critics! Can your Rules of Art,  
Such Heavenly Music, with such Charms, impart?  
No, 'tis that noble Heat, that sparkling Fire,  
The Muses give, when they their Sons Inspire,  
That Warms the Soul, which kindly does dispense  
Such tuneful Numbers, with such shining Sense:  
This Dryden felt,— but ah! can feel no more;  
No Muse can his extinguished Heat restore:  
They only can afford their pious aid,  
To help the Living to lament the Dead.   

Farewell Great Dryden! Thou shalt ever stand  
The Sacred Homer of the British Land!  
For ever will we offer at thy Shrine,  
Invoke no other Muse, but only Thine;  
If thou but Smile, the Work will be Divine.   
Cath. Hall, Cambridge, May 16. 1700. W. Words.   

On the Memory of the Great DRYDEN.  

ON Iordan's Banks the gazing prophet's stood,  
And saw the Great Elijah pass the Flood;  
They saw the HOST descend the Radiant Air,  
And saw Him mounted in the flaming Carr:  
This Glorious Scene they saw with vast Surprise;  
For still they gazed, and scarce believed their Eyes.  
So now with us, we hear the Funeral Kn●ll;  
The Hearse is stopped before the Dismal Cell.  
With flowing Eyes His Friends the Corpse bemoan,  
And yet we cannot think our DRYDEN gone.  
Long fixed Belief, is very hard Untaught,  
For Him Immortal, as His Works, we thought.   

Hail DRYDEN! Hail! Oh! would His awful Name  
Inspire my Breast with His peculiar ●lame;  
My throbbing Soul should forth in Raptures stream,  
And Lofty Numbers dress the Lofty Theme.  
I'd sing the Labou●● 〈…〉 Pen,  
And Mourn the Nation's loss of such a Godlike Man.   

What did he not to Fame a wretched Age?  
What wondrous Scenes he gave the thankless Stage?  
Survey His Works! see the stupendious P●le!  
Without the Dross, the Gold of all our Isle.  
What Noble Wit through every Volume shine's?  
What sparkling Thoughts adorn the sparkling Lines?  
The Grecian Wits He brought unravelled home,  
And wove 'em richer in the British Loom.   

Great Plautus' Ghost Rejoiced to hear it told,  
Our Dryden mixed his Stuff with Threads of Gold.  
His hand alone could mould our Rugged Tongue,  
And make it bend to Juvenal's Biting Song.  
Majestic Maro too He fetched from Rome,  
And made him Thriumph here, as once at Home.  
Oh! had he Lived, what would he not have done?  
What Wonders had his boundless Soul begun?  
With Tears I must Great Homer's Loss rehearse,  
Redeemed e'er this, from base degrading Verse.  
Close on the Stygian Verge the Genius stood,  
Ready to take the Bark, and stem the Flood.  
What Joy it felt! How did the Phantom smile!  
Charmed with the hopes of visiting our Isle!  
Poor cheated Shade! back to your Mansion go,  
N●ne dares attempt to waft you over now.  
The Piece the Famed Apelles once began,  
Can ne'er be finished by another Man.  
Who now will care a British Muse to read?  
The Soul! the God of English Verse is Dead!   

Yet, after all His great Achievements done,  
Of whi●h the least a Deathless Wreath has won;  
Some wretched Men, (I speak it to their Shame)  
Have drawn their Impious Pens to daub His Fame;  
Tho all their spite could not provoke His Ire,  
Nor did He make the trifling things retire;  
But Lion-like, disdained Ignoble Wars,  
And scorned to turn, and tear the whifling Curs.   

But stay, Methinks I see Great Congreve Frown,  
And Southern looks with Indignation down,  
To see an Unlearned Pen▪ unknown to Fame,  
In tuneless Lines Profane their Father's Name:  
My Muse, at sight of Theirs, is Awed and gone,  
As twinkling Stars expire before the Sun.   
Doddershall in Com. Bucks, May 28th. 1700. A. M.   

On the DEATH of Mr. DRYDEN.  
DEad! No, 'tis all Mistake, he cannot Die;  
Who e'er like Him secures His Memory.  
His Soul, and Fame how e'er his Body die,  
Shall share unequal Immortality.  
Tho Common Fate require his Vital breath,  
H● still is safe, and born to Fame in Death.  
His Works with each succeeding Age shall vie,  
And only with all humane Nature die.  
Inferior Wits, like less●r Stars, each Age,  
Have found with twinkling 〈…〉 S●age;  
But He, like Blazing-Star, more rare in Sight,  
Was rich in Wit, Extravagant in Light.  
But this unwonted Fate, 'bove all we fear,  
Tho' he died Rich, yet none can be his Heir.  
Hen. Hoyle▪ A. M. Trin. Col. Cantab.   

On the Death of Mr. John Dryden.  

LEt others, when some Mighty Man they'd Praise,  
And Trophies ●qual to His Merits raise,  
A single Muse Invoke, t' Inspire their Lays:  
But now there's need of all the Sacred Nine  
Nay, Phoebus too must in the Concert join,  
To make the Numbers Sweet, to make the Thoughts Divine.   

He's gone, the Glory of our English Stage,  
The Learned'st Poet in the Learned'st Age.  
Soft was His Verse, and Charming was his Song,  
His Genius sprightly, and his Fancy young.  
Even Age on Him had no Impression made;  
The Poet Flourished, though the Man Decayed.   

They say indeed, Art's long, and Life but Short;  
But 'tis not always so—  
For though he did the utmost bounds of Knowledge find,  
They were not half so large as his Capacious Mind.   

What though Impartial Fate has taken Him away,  
Reduced His Body to its Native Clay?  
Yet in His Works he will for ever live,  
In Congreve too his Glory will survive;  
Congreve the Lawful Heir of all his Sense,  
His Language, Fancy, and his Eloquence;  
To which Estate none else can make Pretence.   B. K. Trin. Col. Cantab. Alum.  

To the Memory of the truly Honoured JOHN DRYDEN, Esq  By a Young LADY. 

DIsconsolate Britannia Mourning sat,  
Sighs told her Loss, and Tears Neander's Fate:  
Each recollected Line, renewed Her Care,  
And every Thought Enhanced her vast Despair.  
Thus Generous Grief, long struggled in Her Breast,  
But want of Language, Passion's Voice suppressed:  
At last, springtides of Sorrow Silence broke,  
And, in an Agony, these words she spoke;   

Ye Powers above, that Rule this Earthly Stage;  
Ye Sacred Numen of the present Age,  
What has Britannia done, to meet your Hate?  
Why is she punished in Neander's Fate?  
Can none but He, have made your Anger known?  
Can nothing l●ss than He, your Wrath atone?  
He, whom Apollo's sacred Self Inspired;  
Envied by many, but by most Admired:  
Who gave us Virgil in our Native Tongue;  
And Absalom's Misfortunes so Divinely Sung.   

DRYDEN! on whom each Science did attend,  
The greatest Genius, and the greatest Friend;  
Who juvenal and Persius overcame;  
He taught them English, yet preserved their Flame.  
With Worlds of Words He did our Speech Refine,  
And Manly strength with Modern softness join:  
Each Language made subservient to His end,  
And those Acquiests as bravely did Defend.   

Not Famed Timotheus could with greater ease  
Command our Anger▪ or our Wrath appease:  
True Measure with his Verse, our Passions kept,  
And as He Pleased, we either Smiled, or Wept.  
How Noble was His Style, Sublime his Thought!  
How nicely Just was every Piece he wrote!  
But with His last, what Numbers can compare?  
Not dying Swan's more Sweet and Regular.   

And till Neander Graced the British Sphere,  
How abject did our Muse's Sons appear!  
They Coasted by the Shoar a Lazy way,  
But all the Inlands Undiscovered lay:  
Wit's Empire Dryden boldly did explore,  
And like the Hero, could have Wept for more;  
But generously He 〈…〉 Rage,  
And for His Albion's sake, His Passion did assuage:  
Through gloomy Shades unlighted by the day,  
And Heights untrod, He forced an open way:  
For every Province Beacons did provide,  
And marks succeeding Travellers to guide:  
Then gave us Charts of what was long Concealed,  
And to th' admiring World, th' Incognita revealed.   

Oh! had ye lengthened out His fleeting Hours;  
Had he but lived t'ave made Great Homer ours;  
Redeemed his injured Sire, and set him free  
From Chapman, Hobb's, and mangling Ogilby:  
How had the Bard exulted in his mind!  
And with what Pleasure his Great Soul resigned!   

But ah! Britannia, thou complainest too late;  
There's no reversing the Decrees of Fate;  
In vain we Sigh, in vain alas, we Mourn,  
Th' Illustrious POET never will return.  
All like himself he Died, so calm so free,  
As none could equal, but his Emily.   

Weep, weep, Britannia, never cease thy Tears,  
But still increase thy Sorrow with thy Years:  
'Twas mighty Dryden gave thy Island Fame,  
And made that Honour lasting, with his Name.  
This said— She Pensively reclining lay,  
And spent with Grief, wore out the tedious day:  
When sudden Beams of Light around her broke,  
And in a Vision, thus Apollo spoke.   

Much loved Britannia, from this Posture rise,  
Lament no more, nor dull thy beauteous Eyes:  
See where thy Dryden at my Elbow stands,  
And with what Power he now the Nine Commands:  
To gain his Plaudit, how they all aspire,  
And he the Genius is of Albion's Tuneful Quire.  
Then up thou sluggish Isle, revere his Name  
Let all thy Sons my Dryden's Worth proclaim,  
And in Elegiac Numbers celebrate his Fame.    

To the Memory of John Dryden Esq  

WIth floods of Tears, and with unbounded Grief,  
We Mourn the Muse departed in Her Chief;  
As every Poet Crowned with Cypress, pays  
And Consecrates the Laurel to Thy Praise;  
Weeping to see such Hoary Merits fall,  
And blaming Fate's irrevocable Call.   

Oh! sacred Bard, in whose instructive Strains,  
Maro ●s high Sense, with Maro's Beauty reign's;  
In whose Translations, we their Author's see,  
And truly know their Worth, by knowing Thee.  
Accept the Sorrows which thy Sons bestow,  
And Sighs, which from our Breasts incessant flow;  
Grief is the only Offering we can give,  
Since thou who taught'st us Verse, hast ceased to Live:  
Not, but thy Poems Dare the Fatal Powers,  
And give that Life Thou canst not take from Ours.   〈◊〉 B●rridge, Gent.  

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq  

GReece had a Homer; Rome a Virgil lost,  
And well Britannia does her Dryden Boast:  
And still shall Boast the Beauties of the Dead,  
And with the freshest Bays adorn his Head.  
The Sacred Wreath, that long so well was worn,  
Shall now no more be from His Temples torn;  
No more of slighted Merit we complain,  
Now Tom the Second, may securely Reign.   

Hail mighty Bard, that hast for half an Age,  
Reigned Lord of Wit, and Monarch of the Stage!  
Who can compare, or match such mighty Force?  
That could so swift set out, and yet keep on the Course!  
We oft have Poets seen, that well could please,  
Outlive their Wit, as some their Prophecies.  
Thus Learned Cr— ch, sung Horace to his Cost;  
Thus Paradise was in regaining lost.   

Where shall I first endeavour to commend?  
The Task is hard, but harder where to end.  
The perfectest Poem that the Age can show,  
To Your inimitable Pen we own:  
Tho' some dispute the Prize, yet sure there's none  
That can compare with beauteous Absalon:  
The Thought so just, Your Turns so Ravishing,  
As void of blemish, as the Youth you sing.   

Althô the Panther be but half Divine,  
Yet for one Fault, a thousand Beauties shine.  
' 'twou'd have had 〈…〉 Wit,  
Had it less Partially been Read, or Writ.  
Mac Flekno still will in thy Verse be known,  
When he shall be forgotten in his own.  
Thus, though of Maevius, nothing now survives,  
The Sot Lampooned in Virgil, ever Lives.   

Hail happy Bard, that doubly dost excel!  
At once to Write so much, and Writ so well!  
Age, that in others doth the Sense decay,  
And with the Man the Poet wears away,  
Made mighty Thee but more Correct and scarce  
Thy Face it Furrowed, but it filled thy V●rs●;  
And what in Memory it passed away,  
It did much more in juster Judgement pa●:  
Thus when the Sun dart's up its Western Rays,  
Tho' not so warm, it casts a brighter blaze:  
In every Line, the fire of Youth we see;  
Nor is thy latest Work, unworthy Thee.  
New Clothed by You, how Chaucer we esteem;  
When You've new Polished it, how bright the Gem!  
And lo, the Sacred Shade for thee makes room,  
Tho' Souls so like, should take but up o●e Tomb.   

Oh! had You lived to give us all Your Sire,  
And showed th' Unlearned World the Grecian Fire,  
Homer, who does all Mortal Men excel,  
The first that wrote, and last that wrote so well,  
You had the Bard from Chapman's Chains s●t free,  
As Virgil You redeemed from Ogilby.   

Long has He been with two Translations Cursed,  
Both bad, but the Philosopher's the worst:  
Both have Burlesqed Him with assiduous Toil,  
And Greek, as well as Hebrew, Sternholt's Spoil.   

All own You had enough of Fame before,  
And only by Your Death could purchase more.  
To value You aright, an Age we want,  
(Age that improve's both Poetry and Paint)  
Then will thy Name to Verse a Sanction give,  
And DRYDEN will as long as Numbers, live.  
Thus. when at Statues of an Attic Hand,  
With long Delight, Mankind admiring stand;  
And on the Mould, a●d on the shining Mass,  
With Ardour, and with Adoration gaze,  
So soft the Marble, and so smooth the Brass.  
But while they're wondering who so well Designed,  
If on the bulging Base, they Phidias find,  
Tho' from the Name, it no new Worth receive's,  
The Noble Pi●ce, a vaster Value give's.   

Hail mighty Master of thy Mother Tongue,  
More smooth than Waller▪ or than Denham strong!  
Pompous in Praise, in satire as Severe,  
As Cow Witty, as Roscommon, Clear.  
What secret Magic lies in every Verse,  
That does so move the Mind▪ so please the Ears!  
That Tuneful Turn, that Charming M●stery,  
You showed to none but Noble Normanby;  
Or if to any other Bard 'tis known,  
'Tis to engaging Garth, and Addison,  
The fittest now to fill thy Vacant Throne.   

Let us look back, and N●ble Numbers trace  
Directly up from Ours, to Chaucer's days;  
Chaucer, the first of Bards in Tune that Sung,  
And to a better bend reduced the stubborn Tongue.   

Spencer upon his Master much Refined,  
He Coloured sweetly, though he ill Designed;  
T●o mean the Mod●l for so vast a Mind.  
Thus while 〈◊〉 to make his Stanza's Chime,  
Good Christian Thoughts turn Renegade to Rhyme.   

'Twas Fairfax first the sounding Couplet taught,  
His Diction Noble, and sublime his Thought;  
From whose fair Copy, well our Waller wrote;  
But what he wanted Life or Power to do,  
Is happily at last achieved by You.  
And as what Virgil, and what Horace sung,  
Is still the Standard of the Latin Tongue,  
So will Thy Works to long Posterity,  
The Touchstone of our British Poesy be.  
Thus, when Old Rome had reached her utmost height,  
She quickly bend beneath th' unwieldy Weight.  
Thus towering Tides, that can no farther flow,  
Must to their Father Ocean backwardly go.   Henry Hall.  

A PASTORAL, On the Death of Mr. DRYDEN.  Damon. Alexis. Dam. 
TEll me Alexis, tell thy faithful Swain,  
Why my loved Shepherd thus forsake's the Plain?  
Now in this cheerful Season of the Year,  
When smiling Nymphs fresh Garlands do prepare,  
Why should the loved Alexis Disappear?  
Thy Flocks are well, thy Charming Nisa's kind,  
And Damon love's thee too, nor canst thou find,  
Beyond all these, aught to affect thy Mind.  Alexis. 
Ah Damon that ungrateful Search decline,  
I've News will shock thy Breast, as well as mine;  
Thou may'st besure it is no common thing,  
Can drive me from the Glories of the Spring;  
No Vulgar Sorrow could prevail above  
Care of my Flocks, and Thine and Nisa's Love.  
knowst thou, Palaemon? D— That you might have spared,  
What Swain of Great Palaemon has not heard?  
When their best Arts the Rival Shepherds tried,  
I heard Palaemon the Great Cause decide,  
With such a Grace he closed the envious Fray,  
That both the Jarring Youths went Pleased away.  
Oft with commanding skill He'd Charm the Plains,  
And ravish with soft Airs, th' attentive Swains,  
Who doubt if Pan himself has sweeter Strains.  
We choose May-Lady before long, and then,  
I hope to hear his Tuneful Voice again.  Alexis. 
Alas! fond Youth, thy fruitless hopes give over,  
This Great, this Loved Palaemon is no more;  
Breathless and Cold, the lost Palaemon li●'s,  
Cold as this Earth, thus moistened from mine Eyes.  Damon. 
Forbidden it Pan! and yet it must be so,  
My mind presents the boding Omen now,  
Which only could Palaemon's Death foreshow.  
You knew the well-grown Captain of my Flock,  
Fairest and best of all my Fleeces Stock;  
High on his branching front he bore the Bell,  
Which to th' inferior Herd did Danger tell,  
When e'er the treacherous Wolf a Slaughter meant,  
He rung th' Alarm, and baulked the sly Intent.  
Th' obsequious Flock ne'er from their Leader roved,  
Nor tasted Grass, but what he first approved.  
This valued Sheep, a little while ago,  
Sunk and Expired before the Watering Trough;  
The cause to me unknown; and as He fell,  
A reverend Nod, rung out the fatal Kn●ll;  
With great amaze, th' unwelcome sound I heard,  
Much grieved my Loss, but more the Omen feared.  Alexis. 
Shepherd, thy fears were Just, the sad portent  
Is fatally explained in this Event;  
For as that Sheep thy wandering Flock did lead,  
Just so Palaemon did the Shepherds Head.  
When growing Worth reached forward to the Bays,  
He would with Joy, the bold Pretender raise,  
And be himself the Herald to his Praise.  
Fixed high in fame, He gladly did dispense  
To blooming Wit, a ripening Influence,  
If over informed, the Muse would soar too high,  
And on adventurous Pinions sought the Sky;  
To bring her gently down, he knew the Lure,  
And made her fall Delightful and Secure,  
Or should her flames on 〈◊〉 Wing● aspire,  
With active Vigour he'd improve the Fire.  
But while I strive to pay the Debt I own  
To His commanding Skill, I only Show  
How high it was in Him, in me, how low.  
Yet this I have however, to excuse  
The flowing Error of a Mourning Muse,  
That when this uninspired Scroll was writ,  
W'had lost the Genius of our English Wit.  T. A.  

An Essay on the Death of Mr. Dryden.  

THe justest Grief that can on Fate attend,  
We own the loss of Father, and of Friend.  
Mourn every Muse, let all your Streams be dry.  
But such as Sorrows lavish from the Eye,  
That only can Inspire with Elegy.  
To all Your softer Charms, a long adieu,  
Those Beauty's Sacred Bard, are lost with you;  
Our Oracles are ceased, our Language dies,  
We've scarce Expression left us, but in Sighs.   

Fain would I pay the mighty Debt I own,  
In flowing Words, but Tears will only flow.  
My kindling flame, You kindly fanned and taught  
T' ascend above, and stop below a Fault.  
By Precept and Example, formed my Mind,  
And Wisdom's stricter bounds to Wit assigned:  
By others faults, instructed me to choose  
With care, the Graceful, for 〈◊〉 guilty blush.  
Showed me where weighty Words, where Figures please;  
And where fair Nature shines without a Dress.  
And all the Sterling Wealth my Issue wears,  
I own the fertile Product of Your Cares.  
But now in vain are all those Labours spent;  
The Muse can only help me to Lament.   

Tell me, Ye Widowed Nine, for You can tell,  
By all how Loved, how Praised, how Mourned he fell.  
The Genius of our Isle! He brought us home  
The Learned Spoils of Athens, and of Rome.  
And in our Native Tongue, by him Refined,  
Their richest Oar, is with His Numbers joined.  
With Homer's plenty, His Didactics flow;  
Yet Virgil's Care, their chaste Expressions show.  
More numerous Joys not Horace could Inspire,  
Nor touch with cleaner hands the charming Lyre.  
When artless Nature He essayed, the Fair  
Felt Ovid's Softness, and Tibullus' Air.  
And to suppress the blooming growth of Vice,  
The fire, and force of juvenal was His.  
Terence ne'er pleased a judging Audience  
With juster Characters, or weightier Sense.  
Nor Marshal could in Miniature express  
A closer Thought, or better Praise and Please.  
What happy Genii furnished later Time  
With useful Numbers, were but Types of Him:  
They each excelled in some one shining Part  
Of Verse, but He in all the Sacred Art.   

Ye Pious Few, that to the Muse belong,  
Pay at his T●●b th● 〈◊〉 o● your Song:  
And tell the listening World, no Age must know  
Another Universal Mind below.  
Tell all the Great and Good, their Glorious Aim,  
And conscious Worth, must now suffice for Fame.  
And tell the brightest Stars in either Sphere,  
No Virtue soared above his Flights, but Their:  
Thither th' aspiring Bard is Winged away,  
Where her bright Fires gild an Eternal day,  
To sing with His, Her still united Rays.  
— But here Expression fails; a thoughtful Breast,  
Too big for Words, can only feel the rest.    

An ODE, On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  By a Young LADY. 

I.  
AS when Plebeians at a Monarch's Death,  
(Which should not be Profaned by Vulgar Breath)  
With saucy Grief, bewail the Fate  
Of him they feared, almost Adored of late,  
Presumptuous in their Tears, though helpless in their State.  
So I the Muse's meanest Subject join  
The Sorrows of the Great, with mine;  
And though I cannot Tribute pay,  
T' acknowledge Their Imperial Sway,  
With arrogant, yet conscious Grief presume  
To shed a Tear at Their Vicegerent's awful Tomb.   

II.  
Ah! who could think that Godlike Man,  
Immortal in our Thoughts, as in His own,  
Should have no greater Favour shown;  
And though with every Art and Grace Endowed,  
Should have a Life but of the usual Span,  
And shrink into a Common Shroud:  
Yet shall not His unequalled Merit die,  
Nor all the wrongs of Fate, His Laurels blast,  
Tho' Albion's Realms should be Destroyed and Waste,  
And in forgotten Ruins lie,  
Fame's echoing Trump His Glories shall rehearse  
To all the wondering Universe,  
Till its shrill Voice be swallowed up in what shall sound the Last.   

III.  
Sure, Poets are not made of Common Earth;  
Or He at least may boast a Nobler Birth:  
He, who in every Atom was Inspired  
With flowing Fancy, and with Rapture fired;  
Tho' the great Secrets not disclosed,  
He surely was, like Thebes, with artful Tunes Composed.  
The Voices of the soft Melodious Nine  
In Consort joined Apollo's forming Lyre,  
And Light ineffable infused its Fire,  
With Tuneful Measures, Harmony Divine,  
At the glad, Sacred, all-commanding Sound,  
With Animation, passing Vulgar Thought,  
The knowing, willing Atoms came,  
And danced into the Sacred Frame,  
And blessed Ideas brought,  
Which filled His Soul, and Ours with Rapture drowned.   

iv  
It must be so— for nothing else could dart  
Such Beams of Knowledge, and Celestial Art,  
So clear a Judgement, and so bright a Mind;  
Like it's Almighty Maker, ever Young,  
And amidst Weakness, Strong;  
Tho' Age and Sickness both against it joined.  
But why did Phoebus and the Nine  
A Piece so Perfect make?  
If we their Workmanship must now resign,  
And they again the Blessing take?  
Why was Thy Body, most Illustrious Shade,  
Like others made?  
Subject to Casualties and Fate,  
And common ills, which wait a Mortal State?  
When thy Celestial Mind  
Had nothing of base Human kind,  
But full of Inspiration spread  
It's noble Ardour, and its Godlike Rage,  
Whose Works shall be with Pleasure read,  
By every coming Age.  
And Fame shall make Thee Live, though Fate has made Thee Dead.   

V  
Apollo once before a Temple blessed,  
Where all th' Inquisitive might come  
For an Ambiguous Doom;  
And splendid Pomp amazed the Curious Guest,  
Yet with less Glory could at Delphos shine,  
Where Floors of Marble, Roofs of Gold,  
Did his oraculous Godhead hold,  
Than in thy living Shrine.  
There He was checked with a Priest-riding Yoke,  
Nor till the Blockhead pleased, the Godhead spoke.  
But Phoebus has been always free,  
And spoke without restraint in Thee.  
In Thee with the same Pomp His Rays appeared,  
As when upon his bright Imperial Seat,  
Where He the shining Sceptre reared,  
Beyond Expression great.  
But Oh! that Deity is Silent now!  
Silent as is Thy Tomb, which claim's our Tears,  
No more the God within thy Voice appears  
Nor speaks through Thee what we should know,  
As from thy Lips the Graces flow.  
As from thy Lips the Graces flow,  
But all the lesser Lights of Wit Expire,  
All glimmering lie,  
And with declining Fire,  
Since He, from whom they took their Light,  
Has winged His flight,  
And set's not in the Seas, but in the Sky.   

VI  
Farewell to Inspiration now,  
All Sacred ecstasies of Wit,  
The softer Excellence  
Of melting Words, and moving Sense;  
Ye will no more with tempting sweetness flow,  
But Poetry must now submit  
To the bold, Enthusiastic Rage  
Of a Malicious Age:  
Which stead of Wonders, Monsters must bring forth,  
To stock the Times with want of Worth,  
And break the Poets, as they break the Stage.   

VII.  
Pythygoras his Doctrine m●ch I doubt,  
Or else if Thy Great Soul should Transmigrated be,  
It might be Parcell'd out.  
And stock each Age with Lawreat's till Eternity.  
Oh! where is that Harmonious Soul of thine,  
Teaching more Tuneful Numbers to the Sphere?  
Or making Stars with greater Lustre shine,  
Or hovering through th' extended space thy long Eternity of Years?  
No— into Sacred Shades thou'rt gone;  
The Souls of Poets needs must thither fly,  
(I'm sure they Lovers live, how e'er they di●)  
But Thou so many Laurels here hast won,  
As soon will plant a new Elysium of thy own:  
Triumphant sit beneath Thy Verdant Shade  
Of ever blooming Wreaths, which less than those will sade  
Which are below for Laurels made.  
Then Virgil the R●nown'd, the Great,  
May keep His ancient Regal Seat,  
Which there at thy approach he must resign,  
For well he knows, Wit's Throne is Thine,  
And thou deserv'st the guidance of the Learned State.   

VIII.  
And lo! with humblest Thanks He greet's that Hand,  
Which so successfully has taught,  
His long famed Works, the Language of our Land,  
With Art in every Line, and Grace in every Thought.  
None their intrinsic Value can deny▪  
The well-placed Pride of ancient Rome,  
Polished by Thee, is now Our Boast become.  
Sparkling with all the Glories of true Poetry,  
And takes from all a just and happier Doom.  
Orpheus, and all the Tuneful Spirits there,  
With Joys new Dated celebrate thy Fame,  
In an Eternal, soft Celestial Air,  
For all the Honours Thou hast done that slighted, injured Name.   

IX.  
And We, who drowned in Tears, are left behind,  
Are all employed about Thee too;  
And though thy Worth too great a Theme we find,  
At least our Gratitude and Grief we show.  
Our best Encomiums but Profane Thy Name,  
Unless a Congreve would a Piece design,  
Whose Numbers, as they're dear to Fame,  
Can Justice do to Thine.  
My well-meant Trophy blushing I must rear,  
Unkind Melpomene affords no aid,  
Tho' I so often begged and Prayed,  
My weaker Voice she would not hear.  
Amongst the mighty Men She's busied now,  
They, They, I find, best Charm Immortal Females too.  
Tho' she'll not teach what Measures I shall keep,  
Nor in Heroics will my Wonder dress,  
Nor in a softer Ode my Grief express,  
'Tis my own fault (being Woman) if I cease to Weep.  
Since this Great Man Fate's rigid Laws obeyed,  
How is Wit's Empire lessened and decayed!  
It scarce a Province now appears;  
Come, then 'tis Politic to join your Tears;  
Forbear not till an Ocean round it flows,  
And it an Island grows,  
It may be safe encompassed with our Sea,  
But never Fortunate can be  
While Nonsense shall have Friends, and Sense have Foes.   
May 7 th'. 1700. S. F.   

Upon the Death of Mr. DRYDEN. By Mr. Digby Cotes, of Magdalen-Hall, Oxon▪ A Young Gentleman, Sixteen Years Old.  
WHen now at length the Great Apollo's Dead,  
And every Muse with its loved Patron's fled,  
What daring Bard will venture to set forth  
His mighty Name, and celebrate His Worth?  
Whose least Perfections our whole Wonder raise,  
Despise our Envy, and transcend our Praise.  
Himself alone, could His vast Beauties show,  
And all the Poet in Perfection draw;  
Can trace each finer Thought, each Heavenly Line,  
And make himself in His full Lustre shine.  
Then had the Godlike Absalon revealed  
A Nobler Plot, than he himself Concealed,  
Then might Achitophel again be Viewed,  
And all his Image in His Son renewed;  
Factious and turbulent, new Plots he lays,  
And still the false Achitophel betrays:  
Yet such fair Baits the specious Plots Disguise.  
We scarce discern the Well-wrought Artifice.  
But think even St St —y True, and M—th Wise.  
Thus when some meaner Thoughts Thy Muse engage,  
And Mac or B— e urge thy juster Rage;  
So much their Folly's, in their Writings sink,  
That the vile Scribblers seem at least to think.  
Methoughts I saw the mighty Phoebus fired  
With just Revenge, with all His Rage Inspired;  
Full of Himself, through heavens vast Space he road,  
While sparkling Flames confessed the angry God.  
Neglected Dryden all involved His Rage,  
And claimed just Vengeance on a barbarous Age.  
With Grief he viewed Him struggling with His Fate,  
Oppressed with Wants, and despicably Great.  
While all herself His drooping Muse betrayed,  
And Nature's rising Efforts, though decayed,  
When these Prophetic Curses eased His Breast,  
And thus, the labouring God his Rage expressed.  
Since Charming Dryden has so late confessed  
Your base returns, and proved your barbarous taste,  
Still may your long successive Dulness reign,  
Still may your Sons the War with Wit maintain;  
Let C— e still the Ladies Pity raise,  
And Torture one poor Maid a thousand ways,  
While pleased or Grieved, she still the Mourning Bride betrays.  
Let Ways o'th' World in three dull years be writ,  
And want of time, excuse his want of Wit.  
M●● your nice Tastes contemn each Nobler Art,  
While all things pass rewarded, but Desert.  
Again, let Blustering B— y huff the Age,  
With words more dreadful than his Tyrant's Rage;  
He said; When straight his Messengers he sent,  
And to himself recalled the Treasure he had lent.  
Th' afflicted Bard received the glad Command,  
And urged himself his Hast, and left th' ungrateful Land.  
Thus, af●●r many long revolving Years,  
When the last Series of her Life appears,  
The Noble Phoenix hastes Her sluggish Date  
With lighted Torch, and urge's on her Fate.  
Her mighty self involve's her numerous Fame,  
While on her Death depends her future Name,  
Herself, herself survive's, and sparkl's from the Flame.  
This well-known Truth, let long Experience prove,  
We hate what's Present, but what's absent, love;  
Still rivalled Malice haunts our envied breath,  
And Poets only Triumph after Death.   

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  
FArewell, Oh more than Greece or Rome cold boast,  
More Worth than all those two famed Empires lost.  
Great Poet, whose Unimitable Arts,  
A Thousand ways engaged the Readers Hearts;  
Thy Verse so Tuneful, so sublime thy Song,  
Thy Turns so delicate, thy Periods strong.  
Whose solid Judgement held the guided Reins,  
Whilst Fancy soared beyond M●eonian Strains.  
Apollo Crowned Thee with Triumphant Bays,  
The Muses tuned their Voices to thy Lays,  
And all the Learned World gave Thee unenvied Praise.  
Since L●rick Songs have raised a Lasting Name,  
Since ●ne Admired Poem could Proclaim,  
As well the Poets, as the nero's Fame,  
Since moving Strains of Tender Love have made,  
Ner●e-dying Laurels flourish round a Head.  
And Pointed Satyrs F●rce alone preferred,  
To Endless Ages the Censorious Bard,  
How, Oh Transcendent Dryden, can we raise,  
To thy unequalled Numbers equal Praise?  
When all their Talents made not up thy One,  
Which Nobler grew, as they became thy own.  
Like Fruits Transplanted to a Warmer Sun.  
Thy Memory ever Sacred will survive,  
Thy matchless Works that common Bounty give,  
And you in them, like other Poets, live.  
But as you flourished Albion's Pride and Grace,  
And she in you did all the World surpass,  
Sure she'll contrive some Monument unknown,  
To show her Gratitude, and thy Renown,  
And out do All, as Thou hast All ourdone.  C. H—ton.  

To the Memory of John Dryden, Esq  

Hunc quoque summa dies, nigro summersit Aver●o,  
Effugi●t Avidos Carmina sola rogos. Ovid. in mortem 〈◊〉.   

Celestial Muse, whose Godhead could inspire,  
The Bards of Old, with Rays of Genial Fire.  
And Teach 'em with Harmonious Tunes to raise,  
Immortal Structures, to their Hero's praise;  
By whom even late Posterity might know,  
How much the greatest Men to Poets owe.  
You that our Orpheus, could such numbers Teach,  
And Learned the Mantuan Swan what Notes to reach.  
When he of burning Ilium's Turrets Sung,  
And told poor Dido's Love, and Dido's wrong.  
You that this Island with a Cowley blest,  
And chose Immortal Dryden from the rest.  
To rule the Muse's Land with powerful Sway,  
And make the British Tongue his Art obey,  
That we with wonder might his Works peruse,  
And find a Rival for great Homer's Muse.   

If yet remains one Spark of Living Fire,  
That did not with your Dryden's Life Expire.  
Let me a while with Zealous sorrow tell,  
How much he thought, and Writ, and yet how well,  
How long he Envied Lived, yet how Lamented fell!  
But Oh how fond it is to wish? how vain!  
To hope for that, which we can ne'er obtain?  
None but a Dryden, should of Dryden Writ,  
And he (alas!) is set in endless Night.  
At rest he lies within the silent Grave,  
Not its own Verse could its own Master Save.  
Death knew not Harmony, nor felt the Charms  
Of Verse, but close within its Icy Arms.  
It Clasped the Bard, whilst to its Natives Skies,  
His Rising Soul enlarged from Bondage flies.  
Where now his Numbers most Serenely flow,  
On Nobler Subjects, than he chose below.   

Farewell, Thou great Departed Shade Farewell,  
No Humane Tongue, our Grief or Loss can tell.  
Thy Muse no more with her enchanting lays,  
To Ecstasy, our Wondering Souls can raise.  
No more our Breasts with gentle raptures move,  
Describing the immortal Joys of Love.  
As the bleak Winter stops the Warbling Breath  
Of Philomela, so Thine is stopped by Death;  
But with this Difference, the returning Spring,  
Renews her Voice, and she again will Sing.  
Again run all her Mournful Music over,  
But thou (alas!) must Write, must Sing no more.   

'Tis true thou long hadst left th' ungrateful Stage,  
Where only Congreve now can please this Age.  
Congreve the Darling of the Sacred Nine!  
Whose Charming Numbers only yield to Thine.  
Yet still new Worlds of Wit, Thy Cares Explored,  
We Read with Wonder what we still adored,  
In English Dress we View great Maro's Song,  
Nor has Thy Version done its Author wrong;  
So justly wrought, so lofty, smooth, and fine.  
That when the Latin we compare with Thine,  
Which Merits most our praise its hard to tell;  
He Wrote, and thou Translatedst him, so well.  
Nay hadst thou lived, thy Muse had brought from Greece,  
A Nobler Treasure, than the Golden Fleece.  
Achilles then, upon the British plain,  
Had fought and mourned his Dear Patroclus Slain.  
Then chaste Penelope had wept to prove,  
An absent Husband had her present Love.  
And we all Wondering at her Arts had stood.  
To see her by such Grecian Nobles Wooed.  
Yet still refuse them, with an Air Divine;  
Though Courted in such Magic Verse as Thine.  
But thus it will not be— The Muse is fled,  
A●d there amongst the mighty Rivals, dead.  
Methinks I see the Reverend Shades prepare  
With Songs of Joy, to waft thee through the Air.  
And lead Thee o'er the bright Aetherial Fields,  
To taste the Bliss which their Elysium yields.  
Whe●e Chaucer, johnson, Shakespeare, and the rest,  
Kindly embrace their venerable Guest,  
Then in a Chorus sing an Ode of Praise,  
And Crown thy Temples with Eternal Bays.  
Whilst we in pensive Sables clad below  
Bear hence in solemn Grief, and pompous Woe,  
Thy sacred Dust to Chaucer's peaceful Urn,  
And round thy awful Tomb profusely mourn.  
Here take thy rest, enjoy thy sweet repose,  
Death has secured thy Memory from thy Foes;  
And though my Verse must perish as it's born,  
If thy great Name protect it not from scorn.  
Thine, thine shall live when Time shall have no Name,  
Eternal in its Beauties, and its Fame.    

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  

FArewel thou Chiefest of the Sons of Fame▪  
Even I, who formerly presumed ●o blame▪  
Now change my Style, and Celebrate thy Name  
Not that I writ with Prejudice, or Spite,  
But might too warmly vindicare the Right—  
But die thy Faults and Mine— and with 'em die  
All vain, Religious Animosity  
The Seamless Coat, by our Divisions torn,  
Is by the py-balled Sects in Patches worn;  
Each has its Rent (and they no more require)  
Which we, agreeing, should preserve entire.   

The way thus cleared: Lo! Noble Ghost, I come,  
One of thy numerous Train, to sing Thee home;  
The Triumphs of thy Numbers to proclaim,  
And join my Voice with theirs, whose Voice is Fame.   

Scarce did Thy Phoebus soar a loftier pitch,  
Than what thy own Aspiring Notes could reach:  
They did not strain to rise, or faintly fly,  
But with a Seraph's Pinion winged the Sky:  
While listening Angels did thy Lays admire,  
And wish Thee there in the Celestial Choir,  
Thy Human with their Heavenly Songs to join,  
To make the Concert perfectly Divine.   

But tho' to Honour Thee we all agree,  
What can we add to thy Repute, or Thee?  
Short-lived and vain is all th' Applause we give;  
Our Lines must die, and only Yours will live.   

When Homer (who is, now Thy nearest Mate)  
Was called from Earth to his Immortal State,  
That Life and Glory with the Gods to share,  
Which has been since so Celebrated he●e;  
The Youth of Greece, no doubt, as One, did join,  
All grateful to his Fame, as we to Thine:  
It e●'●y Breast did warm to an Extreme,  
To be the first on such a glorious Theme:  
Yet not a Line, and not a Name we see,  
His vastly louder Fame has Theirs engrossed,  
As Human Voices are in Thunder lost:  
The Greater Blaze of Light the Less o'er-pow'rs;  
And so Thy Verse will once Extinguish Ours.   

He 'twas that did the Grecian Language rear,  
To all the Strength and Loftiness 'twould bear.  
The Latin, Virgil seated in the Skies,  
And beyond which it could no higher rise.  
And you, the Third, have fixed the British Tongue,  
To run as Copious, and to last as long:  
Made by thy Purity of Phrase and Sense,  
Not capable of further Excellence.  
So God his Bounds to the wide Ocean laid,  
And told it— Hither come— And here be stayed.   

This Fate, besides, peculiarly You bear,  
In which no Writer ever yet could share:  
You saw, yourself, your Empire fixed in Peace,  
And grown so large as not t'admit increase.  
Where e'er their Verse prevailed, You lived to know  
Your own received alike Triumphant too;  
Diffusing Wit, and giving Wings to Fame,  
There were the Roman Eagles never came.   

To grieve were vain— We cannot call Thee lost,  
While Britain stands Thou shalt be Britain's boast:  
Tho' thy Immortal Mind's retired, we find  
A no less Everlasting Part behind.  
Your Works and You, by a stupendous Doom,  
Like janus, may to Deity presume;  
Thou there see'st all that's Past, and They'll see all to Come.   

●Twas then we sighed, when Otway from us torn,  
Made all the Loves and all the Graces mourn:  
Even yet the Stage her Darling's Loss complain,  
Charming his Face, and charming were his Strains!  
'Twas then we sighed when fatal Frenzy seized  
Thy Faithful Lee— who never writ but pleased:  
Tho' cooler Pens his Youthful Ardour blame,  
Without his Fire, they'll never reach his Fame.  
'twas then we sighed when Oldham fell a prey,  
Cropped by a sudden Blite, before his Day:  
His Loss we all did with Impatience bear,  
And every Muse bemoaned Him with a Tear.  
So they again would Sigh, should Congreve be,  
An Early Instance of Mortality;  
And the Expecting World (so seldom kind)  
Lose all the Wonders that are yet behind,  
In the unbounded Treasures of the Mind.  
So would they Mourn should Southern leave the Stage,  
So just to Comic Wit, and Tragic Rage:  
Southern, who, singing Oro●noko's Flame,  
Has made his own a like Immortal Name.—  
But Thee 'twere almost Impious to deplore;  
We had Thee all— and Fate could give no more:  
With Peace, Applause, with Years and Laurels Crowned,  
And Life, nor Fame could make Thee more Renowned.   Robert Gould.  

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  

DRYDEN, and Dead! what Echo did I hear,  
That Groaned such dismal Accents in my Ear?  
Echo, 'tis false, for Dryden cannot die;  
He'll Live Immortal as his Poetry.  
Dryden! the Glory of the English Stage,  
Sprightly in Youth, and Vigorous in Age.  
So Charmingly the matchless Dryden Writ,  
Engrossing the Monopoly of Wit.  
So choice each Word, so well compact each Line;  
Each feature Graceful, and each thought Divine,  
Showed him the Favourite of the sacred Nine.  
In Dryden's everliving Works are shown,  
The Ancient Poets all Comprised in one;  
His Predecessors by far different ways,  
Courted applause, and sought the Verdant Bays;  
One reached the Clouds in lofty Mantuan Verse,  
Another keen jambick would rehearse:  
This Bard applied himself to Tragedy,  
That had a taking Vein in Comedy.  
Till Phoebus' knowing all Poetic Wit  
To be defective, and imperfect yet.  
Sent down his Darling Dryden to relieve,  
The fainting Art▪ and make it ever live;  
Who by the God inspired divinely Writ,  
And made the never-fading Art Complete.  
He found the Ore, and did refine it too,  
And having done what never Man could do,  
Assumed a Swanlike from and o'er the Clouds he flew.  
What if He did forsake the Mourning Land,  
And Mount the Skies by a Divine Command?  
There to complete the Sacred Choir above,  
And Sing his Glorious Songs of Joy and Love.   

Yet Dryden's shall stand secured of praise,  
And reach Fame's Empyrem in his Lays.  
City's may perish, Rocks may be defaced,  
But his Renown shall never be debased.  
His Deathless Verses, shall Immortal be;  
Immortal as the Glorious God of Poetry.   I. Blyth. One of the Signior Scholars in Merchant Tailor's School, Aged 15.  

Upon the Death of John Dryden, Esq A PINDARIC.  

I.  
THE Glorious Age had scarce begun,  
In happy rounds of Peace to run;  
When Thou our Joy and Light  
Forsook the World, and left us wrapped in Night.  
With Sorrow we received  
The dismal News, but scarce believed;  
We thought so great a Man as Thee,  
Not subject to Mortality;  
Such wondrous Verses did thy heaven-born Muse,  
Such warbling Airs, such Harmony diffuse,  
That when thy charming Lines we read,  
It is preposterous to think Thee dead.  
But yet (as all things end, that ere begun)  
Thy Muse is Silent now, thy Life is done,  
And Thou art o'er the fatal River gone,  
To Death's inhospitable Shore;  
Where all thy Rivals went before,  
And Thou and Harmony are ours no more.   

II.  
Was Nature weary of her Load,  
And could no longer stay?  
Or did some kind, some Guardian God,  
Translate thy Soul from her Abode,  
And waft Thee to the Realms of Light and Day?  
Which way soever 'twas,  
We must sustain the Loss:  
A Loss sh' irreparably great,  
Not all the coming Ages can repair:  
Though we should storm Jove's awful Seat  
With the Artillery of Prayer.  
The kneeling World might beg in vain,  
To hear the Music of thy Voice again.  
So much thy Skill the Angel's prize,  
They'll ever keep Thee in the Skies;  
To make the Anthems which they Sing  
In praise of Nature's God, and Heaven's Eternal King.   

III.  
Can I like Thee in lofty Numbers sing,  
Of Thee, the darling Son of Fame,  
Of Thee I'd make the Hills and Valleys ring.  
And wanton Echo sport with Dryden's Name.  
Dryden, Dryden, all around  
Should the vocal Groves resound.  
And Winds be hushed and still, to catch the carming Sound.  
Whilst neighbouring Streams that steal along  
In winding Currents o'er the flowery Plains,  
Should stop their Waves, and listening to my Song,  
Rise up in silver Heaps to hear my happy Strains.  
But hearing me bewail thy Death,  
(Tho' in soft harmonious breath)  
They'd sadly sink away,  
And flowing backwards to their Urn,  
Through some dark subterraneous Cell,  
Where Silence, Night, and Chaos dwell:  
Remote from hated Light for ever stray,  
And there thy Loss in hollow Murmurs mourn.   

iv  
Oh Father of our English Tongue!  
To Thee our Praises all belong:  
To Thee we should a Temple build,  
(A lasting Monument of Fame)  
That future Ages may just Homage yield,  
And pay a grateful Tribute to thy Name.  
Thou hast so much our Words refined,  
So happily increased the Store;  
That in thy Verse such Charms we find,  
As were unknown to all our Bards before.  
Thy artful Numbers, and enchanting Airs,  
(As Orpheus, when he touched the trembling Strings)  
Delude our Griefs, and cheat us of our Cares,  
When thy belov'd Thalia sings  
Of dying Lovers, or victorious Kings;  
Or when with Tragic rage,  
Fond Anthony adorns the Stage;  
Where for his Love, he gives the World away,  
So much he does our pity raise;  
We pay Thee Tears instead of Praise,  
And feel at once unusual Grief and Joy.  
Ah! then, how well may we at Death repine;  
That stilled so soft, so sweet a Voice as thine?  
How great a Cause have we,  
To mourn the Loss of POETRY, and Thee?   

V  
But how should we express our Grief,  
How our deep Cares relate?  
How paint our Sorrows to the Life,  
While we lament his Fate?  
Folded Arms, and weeping Eyes,  
Flowing Tears, and rising Sighs,  
Are Actions all too low,  
To furnish out so sad a Scene of Wo●.  
Like Philomela we should Complain,  
And mourn great Dryden's Death, in Dryden's Strain:  
Or like the dying Swan, with tuneful Breath,  
Bewail his Loss, and sing ourselves to Death.  
But whither, whither wouldst Thou sly  
My feeble Muse? The Quarry's much too high.  
To some great Genius leave his praise,  
Which may survive to After-days:  
Let Congreve then in Deathless Song,  
His Father's Loss deplore;  
Congreve must his Fame prolong,  
In such soft rural Strains, as once he Sung before.  
Whilst generous Montague, both Great and Just,  
In some rich Urn preserves his Sacred Dust,  
And o'er his Grave a Mausolaeum rears,  
To be the Envied Wonder of succeeding Years.   john Froud.  

An ELEGY on the much Lamented Death of John Dryden, Esq the famous English Poet.  
Tu Decus omne, tuis, Postquam te fata tulerunt,  
Ipsa Pales Agros, Atque ipse relignit Apollo,  Virg. 

THE careful Business of the day was done,  
And gloomy Darkness reigned where Phoebus shone,  
When, with the Sun a Swain retired to rest,  
T' allay the Troubles of his anxious Breast,  
Scarce on the Couch his weary Limbs were spread,  
And on the Down reclined his pensive head,  
But the sad startling Tidings reached his Ear,  
Too doleful to be false, too true to hear.  
Long with himself the matchless Man he mourned—  
And slumbering to th' unwelcome Task returned—  
He Cursed the day that rolled the Message on,  
And the shrill Tongue that made the Message known;  
Then murmured at the changing Scenes below,  
Whilst from his Eyes salt Streams disclosed his Woe.  
Sleep ●led his Eyes, and anxious Thoughts possessed  
The restless Region of his throbbing breast.  
Arblast his Passion half becalmed and dead,  
In broken Words, and mournful Sighs, he said,  
Happy the glorious Days when thou didst sit,  
Unrivalled in the sacred Throne of Wit,  
When of Parnassian Sons a numerous Throng  
Stood listening at their charming Phabus' Song;  
●●ke jove sublime and great, like Venus soft and young.  
How sweetly would fair Albion's Cliffs rebound!  
And loath to lose the Voice, dilate the sound  
From Vale to Vale, and all the Forest round;  
No rugged Notes from his blessed Lips could fall;  
Phoebus inspired, as Phoebus chose them all;  
Lofty his Verse, as the blessed Seats above,  
Yet calm as are the Realm's of blissful of Love,  
Serene and smooth, as Evening Rivers roll,  
As Nectar sparkling in th' immortal Bowl;  
And Heavenly magic Work's in every Line,  
And through the whole surprising Fancies shine.  
(Oh were He deathless as his Works Divine!)  
As jove his Form so He could change his Muse,  
And now the Hero, now the Drama, Choose,  
His Hero lofty as the Eagle flies,  
And like the Eagle comes from upper Skies.  
See? See! where most his happy Genius shines,  
Behold the Beauteous Verse and Deathless Lines!  
How Sweetly does he Tune Great Maro's Lyre,  
And fills but never Satisfies desire!  
So Heavenly Joys, with Raptures please the Mind,  
And always leave a present Thirst behind.  
The Sylvan Songs, how pleasant and how Sweet,  
Where Maro's Thoughts, and DRYDEN's Numbers meet▪  
His Thoughts how bold, his Words how dazzling brigh,  
When Arms and War provoke a Nobler slight!  
How Manly he the Grecian Muse bestrides,  
And through the Air on strongest Pinions rides,  
Oh, that He'd lived the finished Work to view!  
But now 'tis left, harmonious Garth, for you;  
So Canaan's happy Plains were seen from far,  
But ne'er received the Sacred Traveller.  
So younger joshua past the Adverse Sand,  
And brought lost Israel to the blissful Land.  
His Drama's just, and great, and as it ought,  
Without, or Want, or overplus of Thought,  
Not like the Infant Muse in frothy Fit,  
That lavishes away its sterling Wit;  
And when both Flame and Heat the Subject wants,  
Has drained the Fountain's head in needless Rants;  
That, balks the longing Reader's strong desire,  
And this O●tends him with excess of Fire;  
But 'twixt the two, his Vessel safe appears,  
And in the Golden Medium wisely steers;  
If once his stabbing Pen the Poet drew,  
He spared the Wits, but all the Blockheads slew;  
So the far-shooting God is God of Sounds,  
And with a Nod the wand'ring Rabble wounds.  
'Twas he that made old crabbed Iuv'nal plain,  
And brought dark Persius to the Light again;  
So Phoebus banishes the gloomy Night  
From our black Coasts, on Wings of Morning Light.  
But who can all th' Immortal Beauties tell,  
That from his Heavenly Muse divinely fell?  
' 'twou'd ask a Tongue Divine, as was his own  
To make his Worth, his Value truly known;  
Such was the Man, (the Man because retired)  
His Death by All deplored as was his Life desired;  
Unhappy Land! thy radiant Glory's gone,  
As Evening Rays sink with the Setting-Sun;  
The Ghastly Truth is heard, and flies, and spreads,  
And as it flies infectious Sorrow sheds;  
All Albion's Sons with Sorrow deluged round,  
Full of the News, lie prostrate on the Ground,  
And clad with Weeds, and melancholy vails,  
Each mourning Swain the Godlike Bard bewails:  
His Mind was grown too pure, and Heavenly bright,  
And must the Carcase leave, and take to Heaven its flight.  
More he had spoke, but Phoebus raised his head  
From off his watery Couch, and thus he said,  
Long have I mourned my Son's unhappy Fate,  
But now am Summoned on my Carr to wait;  
Cease then to Weep till I have gained the Sky,  
Lest Grief should to the World my Beams deny;  
In Garth, or Congreve, shall his Genius shine,  
Then cease thy Tears, nor at harsh Fate repine:  
He said; the Promise cheered his drooping Breast;  
And Light, the present Deity confessed.   R— Key.  

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  
IS DRYDEN Dead? In whining Cantos Mourn,  
And Tears profusely shed upon his Urn,  
Ye servile Scribblers, who were late his Scorn,  
Whilst I rejoice, so great a Man was Born.  
Not in the folly of an empty Mind,  
Rail at his Stars, or call the Fates unkind.  
'Cause he devested of Mortality,  
Has past Death's narrow Po●ts t' Eternity.  
To grieve at's Death, were impiously to Mourn  
At's Life, and murmur that he e'er was Born.  
Since Death is Life's Condition, and to Die,  
As Natural is as to be Born: Then why  
With clamorous Plants should I perplex the Skies,  
Disturb the Air with Groans, the Winds with Sighs,  
Or foully fall upon the Destinies?  
The Gods that gave Him, might have kept him still,  
His Being was appendent on their Will.  
'Twas in their Power alone, to make him be,  
Or to have kept him in Nonentity.  
And not t' have been's the same as not to be,  
One Power at Once, did Life and Death Decree,  
And that he is not; where's the Injury?  
Forth ' Blessings of his Life, I thank the Gods,  
Nor envy's Bliss, in their Divine abodes,  
'Tis true, he, whilst on Earth, most sweetly Sung,  
Soft melting Music dwelled upon his Tongue,  
And the Indulgent Gods, they lent him long,  
His Life our Blessing was, his Death no wrong.  
Tho' gone, yet he has left in part behind,  
The blessed Ideas of his Godlike Mind,  
A Portion of his Soul to Human kind.  
Dryden alone can spoke, alone can show,  
What we to his Informing Genius owe.  
Read but his Learned Works, and there you'll find,  
The Native Lustre of his Noble Mind.  
Judgement amidst his Works, and Fancy shine  
In every Page, and sparkle in each Line.  
His Numbers easy, soft and flowing are,  
His Arguments, than Virgin Streams more clear;  
Through whose Transparent Crystals you may Spy,  
The Radiant Genis, which at the bottom lie,  
His Words adorn his Wit, his Wit his Words,  
And each toth' other matchless Grave affords▪  
His Characters are all so finely Drawn,  
That Nature seems by him to be outdone.  
The Prince and Hero, in his Works you'll see,  
Drawn to the full, not in Epitome▪  
That mighty Minds, no Fate can ever bow,  
Great Montezuma's Sufferings will Show.  
Where Majesty through thickest Clouds does shine,  
With Rays most bright, and Lustre most Divine.  
There Cortes, when a Captive you may see  
Great and Triumphant, as when Victo's free.  
I'th' person of Young Guyomar is shown,  
A Generous Lover, and a Pious Son.  
His various Ways could various Charms impart,  
His Fancy flowed, but governed was by Art,  
His Numbers beauteous, and his Beauties strong▪  
His Periods just, and ●itted to his Song.  
But now the Glory of our Isle is gone,  
No Nation e'er could boast so great a Son▪  
The Muses all his Death deplore; (yet so,  
As Widows their Deceased Husbands do)  
Not wildly without hope, for this they know  
The Gods, that gave them One, can give them Two.  
Thus whilst for Dryden's Death they're pressed with Grief,  
I'th' thoughts of Garth they feel a kind relief.  
Even so, let Albion mourn his Loss, and so  
To all the World her decent Sorrow show:  
But let no Man be vainly obstinate,  
Or too profuse in Grief, since the same Fate  
That gave us Him, can give us one as Great.  
A troubled Thought sometimes will force a Sigh,  
Sometimes a generous Tear will wet the Eye,  
Nature claims these, and these we can't deny,  
And may with Justice pay his Memory.  
But who, with studied Arts their Griefs improve,  
Show more of Ostentation than of Love.  I. T.  

Occasioned by the Sight of Mr. Dryden's Picture at Sir Godfrey Knellers, Drawn with the Bays in his Hand.  
NAy, sure 'tis he! the living Colours move,  
And strike our Souls with Wonder and with Love,  
Has his soft Lyre dissolved Death's fatal Chain,  
And given our Orphaeus to the World again?  
Such is thy Art, Great Kneller, as relieves  
His mourning Friends, and into Joy deceives.  
They who beneath the heaviest Sorrow bend;  
Who grieve not for the Poet, but the Friend:  
When they behold this Piece, their Tears restrain,  
And doubt a while, if they lament in vain.  
So those whom Fate destroys, thy Hand can save;  
And lengthen out a Life beyond the Grave.  
Oh! do thou place on Dryden's Learned Brow,  
The Sacred Bays, for none dare envy now.  
Thus He to future Ages shall be shown;  
Immortal in thy Works, as in his Own.  B. Buckeridge.  

On the Death of John Dryden, Esq  
GReat Dryden's Dead, and what bold daring Muse,  
Shall her last Office to his Grave refuse?  
In Tuneless Sounds, and inharmonious Words,  
(Such as my Infant Muse affords)  
Fain, very fain, would I have told my dismal Tale,  
Backward I thought my Verse to Trail.  
Till Waked by awful Dryden's Name,  
I quit the Lethargy of Grief, and Writ in Rhyme▪  
Why is there such partiality in fate,  
T' allot deserving Men so small a Date?  
While Fools and Coxcombs longer Live,  
And as they grow in Folly so they Thrive.  
Oh! had his Life been lasting as his Fame,  
Ten Thousand Ages yet to come had seen,  
His sacred shrine.  
And Worshipped him, as now they Reverence his Name.  
But the Malicious hand of Envious Death,  
Has stopped the Tuneful Poet's Breath▪  
Nor can Apollo's self the loss retrieve,  
With Grief his Medicines, and his Youth he sees,  
And hates their useless Properties.  
Since neither those could the dead Bard revive,  
Nor these add Ages to him yet alive.  
All Powerful Poet, could I sing like thee:  
I'd smile at vain Amphion's empty Name,  
Mine, only mine should stretch the Cheeks of Fame:  
While I would raise a costlier Thebes than he,  
Rebuild Thee from the Grave, and give Thee Immortality▪  
But Oh! my creeping Numbers cannot flow.  
Spite of thy Name, they're stopped by rising woe;  
Yet take this humble tribute of my Verse,  
For what I want in Praise, my Tears shall pay Thy Hearse.  Anonymus.  

On the Great Preparations made for the Funeral of John Dryden, Esq  

TO Living Wits, all Nations else are kind,  
And make their Fortune's equal to their Mind.  
As they arise in slighted Merits cause,  
And raise the drooping Laurels with Applause;  
So the famed Town that over rough Adria rides  
And Laughs at the weak insults of its Tides.  
Returned a Youthful Author's Tuneful Lays,  
And gave the Bard a Pension for his Praise.  
His Country's Fame, in recompense He Sung,  
And Venice is immortal from his Tongue.   

But wiser we, who all such Precepts scorn,  
And act without the Prospect of return,  
That Starve the Poet, and Caress His Urn.  
To a Dead Author wonderfully kind,  
But rank the Living with the Lame and Blind;  
Like David (while His Infant lived) we Weep,  
Sack Cloth put on, and solemn Fasts we keep.  
But when the Joyful News arrives, He's Dead,  
We Feast the Body, and adorn the Head.  
With Songs and Dances, follow to the Grave,  
Whom just before we Branded for a Slave.   

So Rome the great Ventidius once decried,  
The Living Object of Her hate and Pride.  
But Fate no sooner o'er His Breath prevailed,  
When ROMANS Buried Him, at whom They railed.  
Owning the Deathless Fame His Arms Atcheiv'd,  
Which ne'er had been Acknowledged, had He Lived.   P. C.  

Upon the Hearing of the Death of John Dryden, Esq  
DEATH, thou hast struck, but 'tis in vain to try,  
To Render Mortal, Immortality.  
'Tis true, Thy Dart, this fatal harm has done,  
The Fabric built of Flesh and Blood is gone.  
The Man appears no more unto our Sight,  
We yield him gone into eternal Night.  
But his Great Genius Lives, and ever will,  
Till thou hast left not one Dart more to Kill.  
Wit's mighti'st Hero, thus o'ercomes thy spite,  
Ages to come, shall read him with Delight.  N. Collins.  

To Dr. Samuel Garth, occasioned by the much Lamented Death of John Dryden, Esq  

THough Pens like Yours, and Tongues alone should dare,  
To make Departed worth the Muse's Care,  
And in Defence of injured Virtue rise,  
And bear Consummate Learning to the Skies:  
Yet, since our Loss is greatest, We may plead,  
A right to Mourn what you can never need,  
As Children we Lament a Parents fall,  
And for His Precepts, and his Counsels call:  
As Brethren such as You bewail His Fate,  
Bequeathed for Guardians of our Infant State.  
To parcel out the Bounties of the Dead,  
And Comment on the Lectures He has Read.   

Permit us then, our Duteous Zeal to prove,  
And make a Tender of our Tears and Love,  
As we with Sighs unfeigned the Task pursue,  
And Weep him Dead, who still must Live in You.  
And who shall make us known, and stamp Esteem,  
On what we Writ, since He's the Writer's Theme,  
Though ' midst our Verse no Favourite Congreve shines,  
Nor Urwin sends auxiliary Lines.  
Though Title Page no swelling Kitcat Grace,  
And Playford's Name, takes jacob Tonson's place.   

And since Britannia's Noblest Sons have paid,  
Their Sorrows to this Venerable Shade  
And with Solemnity of Grief have shown,  
They durst even abdicated Merit own.  
Though Murmuring Friends to Malice ever just,  
Reviled the Triumphs of His Honoured Dust.  
As through the Streets, the Moving Spoils of Fate,  
mixed Pomp with Sorrow, and despair with State.   

Since the Dead Bard His Living Honours owes,  
Next to His Verse, to Your immortal Prose.  
And in Wit's Throne by W●●●'s assistance Reigns,  
And shine's a Virgil in a Tully's strains:  
Since Generous Montag●e a Tomb designs,  
For Him He Stabbed, when Living with His Lines,  
And unconfined in Bounteous Actions shows,  
How He can keep his Friends, and gain His Foes,  
As He, by coming Ages to be read,  
Preserves the Living, and Protects the Dead:  
Isis, and Cham, and Thame would be ingrate,  
If unconcerned at such a Moving Fate.  
Which gives Employment to the Noblest Tears,  
And speaks a Gen'ral loss in Gen'ral Fears.   

And, lo! in one United stream they flow,  
Joining to form a Sea of Blackest Woe!  
I'm bred him up, and fitted Him for Fame,  
Herself immortal in His Deathless Name,  
And Thame received and fanned the growing Flame.  
Arrayed His brown's with Laureled Wreaths, which spread,  
Diffusive Beams of Sense around his Head;  
And British Bards with one consenting Voice,  
Admired Their Monarch, and his Master's choice.  
But, how He from His Throne Imperial fel●▪  
Wisdom forbids the Trembling Muse to tell.  
Superior Powers thought his Removal sit,  
And all Superior Powers can Judge of Wit.   

But Isis, to her Sorrow cannot claim,  
The least Alliance to so great a Name.  
Nor has she Taught, His Infant Genius Lays,  
Nor Crowned His Temples with Eternal Bays,  
Yet has She been the subject of His Praise.  
And He must be the Theme, which must infuse  
Brightness, and strength, and Fancy to Her Muse.  
As, in return to Her Exalted Fame,  
She Sings, and Dwells upon its Author's Name.  
And made immortal in His Works, has shown,  
She can from Him immortalize Her own.   

Three Languages His Various Skill confess,  
And own to Him their Decency of Dress:  
Each made indebted to His Artful Song,  
The Greek, the Latin, and the British Tongue.  
And only Three Lament His mournful Fall,  
Whose dying Glories should be wept in All.  
The first with Clouds of English Rhimes o'er spread,  
Showed Homer's fury Spiritless and Dead.  
While through the Gathering Fogs no Beams could Dart,  
To make the Reader see the Writer's Art.  
When He called forth His Numbers, in Defence  
Of slaughtered Fancy, and of martyred Sense,  
Telling the Secrets of his Author's mind,  
And Homer's Readers are no longer blind,  
But lost in Light we grasp the shining Prize,  
Though dark before as were its Author's Eyes.  
Oh! had those Powers that took him hence bestowed  
A longer Time on Earth for His abode;  
That the whole Bard might have adorned our Clime,  
Rescued in every part from Fate and Time.  
But I, in vain, a fruitless wish pursue,  
We have no Hope unless that Hope's in You:  
Or Yours most lengthen His contracted Strains,  
Or all the Bard can never quit his Chains.   

The Second (and what Muse can speak the Wrong,  
Done to the Beauties of the Latian Song)  
Perverted by base Hands, had lost its Charms,  
And British Words had conquered Roman Arms.  
The Goths and Vandals seemed again to Reign,  
And strike a Terror through th' Italian Plain,  
As we no more could find in either's Page,  
An Ovid's softness, or a Virgil's Rage:  
Till He, Rome's other Powerful Genius, rose,  
And Triumphed o'er the conquests of Her Foes.  
Giving the first His Nativeness of Thought,  
And to the last His Fire without a Fault.   

But if the Greek, and if the Latin share  
The Bounties of his Favours, and his Care,  
If Foreign Tongues have His assistance known,  
What Thanks are owing to Him from his own?  
Britain must rise (or Britain is unjust,  
And as she wronged Him Living, wrong's His Dust)  
To Vindicate His long Experienced Aid,  
And own a Debt which she but Oddly paid;  
When from His Brows, the spreading Bays were torn,  
And for His Labours, she returned her Scorn.  
Rugged, and rough, the Bard her Langua'ge found,  
Without a Meaning, or a proper sound.  
As Saxon Syllabs Choked the Roads of Sense,  
And Foreign Words were all Her Tongues Defence.  
But Dryden's Diligence, and Dryden's Thought,  
Chased back the Troops, which false Invaders brought.  
New stamped the Language with another Face,  
And gave it Majesty as well as Grace.  
It's Periods happy, and its Cadence true,  
It's ●lights surprising, and expressions New.  
Perspicuous in its meaning as the Light,  
And grateful to the Ear, and to the Sight.   

Waller, at first, as Moses led the way,  
And showed our Darkened Land a distant Day.  
Dispelled some Clouds which Gathered round its Head,  
And made the Gloom of Night much thinner spread,  
But Nature's Debt He paid, and scarce had spied,  
The Darkness to decrease, but slept and died.  
When Dryden, like a second joshua came,  
His Fortune greater, though his Task the same.  
And led us to the Beauteous Realms of Light,  
Possessing what the other had in Sight,  
Bringing the North much nearer to the Sun,  
And perfecting what Waller had begun.   

Yet though his Works are all sublimely Great,  
And dare the Teeth of Time, and Rage of Fate;  
Though Absolon's Rebellion ever shines,  
And Fleckno's dullness Sparkles in his Lines.  
Though Mourning ANTHONY still makes us Weep,  
And brave VENTIDIUS Manly Sorrows keep.  
Though, All HE has done dares Envy's Nicest Test,  
And His worst Poem's better than our Best.  
His latest Work, though in His last decays,  
As far exceeds His former as Our Praise.  
And Chaucer shall again with Joy be Read,  
Whose Language with its Master lay for Dead,  
Till Dryden, striving His Remains to save,  
Sunk in His Tomb, who brought him from his Grave.    
FINIS.   


GALLUS.  
MUSA, lyrae gemitus pollens, graviumque modorum  
Lamenta! O quae busta colis, cui funera curae:  
Quae moestis mixta exequiis Pompâque sequaci,  
Solemnes cytherae questus & murmura fracta,  
Unum addis Decus, & tristis solatia Lethi;  
Hactenus Heroum inferiae, & communia Regum  
Fata tibi tetigêre Lyram, luctusque ciebant:  
At nunc majus opus, major te funeris ordo  
Exigit: O si Diva pares in carmina fletus  
Possis transferre, & lacrymas aequare canendo!  
Occidit! occidit ille! tibi, tibi, & omnibus aequè  
Dilectus musis, & Phoebi maxima cura:  
Occidit,— O Dea si possim non dicere! Gallus;  
Gallus abit; non Musa illum Geniusque morantur,  
Non vatum studia, atque preces, communia vota;  
Vox illi tandem Musarum oblita silebat,  
Jam comiti desueta Lyrae, & socialibus ausis;  
Ipsa etiam exanimi de vertice conscia Laurus,  
Sicca, & rivali cedens invita cupresso,  
Labitur infoelix, ignotum frondibus olim  
Passura Autumnum, dum magni ad funera vatis  
Ire parat, lacerata comas, nova praefica Gallo.  
At nos intereà, Quos inter carmina Gallus  
Respexit quondam, atque aliquo dignabat honore,  
Ibimus, ibimus, in lacrymas, oculisque soluti,  
Torrentes toti in guttas, fletumque liquemur:  
Qui gemitus! planctusque! & quâ suspiria surgent  
Tempestate! ruet Pectus magno omne tumultu.  
Verùm quid lacrymae & gemitus? num talia plenos  
Sufficient luctus? sunt haec vulgaria moesti  
Argumenta animi: naturaque prodiga donis,  
Omnibus ista opifex dedit instrumenta colendi:  
Sunt aliae moerendi artes, quas ipse docebat,  
Et sibi nunc poscit supremo in funere Gallus,  
Debet enim solo lugeri in carmine vates.  
Quis verò ille audax numeris, Musaeque faventi  
Adnixus? tanto dignum qui funere carmen  
Expediat Cytherâ, atque operae se comparet isti  
Aequalem: solus tantis Congrevius ausis  
Par erit: O quàm tunc tua mollitèr ossa quiescant,  
Ista tuas olim si dicat fistula laudes!  
Nos tamen haec, quoniam fieri sibi talia Gallus  
Dona velit, nos haec dicemus carmina Gallo,  
Carmina Qualiacunque, neget quis carmina Gallo?  
Ergo dilectum terris Proserpina vatem  
Invidet, & tardum fatis nolentibus Ensem  
Arripiens, vitae stamen vocale recidit:  
Nunc tacito Lethes in littore sola moratur  
Regina, opperiens vatem, & venientibus Umbris,  
Multa super Gallo perquirit, & omnis in illo est:  
Saepe manus oculosque ad stagna horrentia tendit:  
Saepe Charonta monet dictis; Cave, Portitor, illum  
Si manûm in turbâ videas, aut forsan arenâ  
Errantem, (nec scire labor) fidelia sunto  
Signa, illi in dextrâ Laurus, sed Carmen in ore:  
Hunc age Puppe, senex, nostras citò transfer ad oras:  
Sed dum carpis iter liquidum, impellentibus undis,  
Serva oculis vatem, nè nigrae toxica Lethes  
Degustet libans, captus novitate bibendi,  
Unde animi caligo, & longa oblivio Musae.  
Haec Dea; decessit senior, nova jussa facessens.  
Gallus adest; tristi medicum solatia Carmen  
Reginae apportans, non ramo gratior auro  
Aeneas venit armatus, duce vate Sibyllâ.  
Gallus adest, dignus qui suavi Tartara & Umbras  
Leniret cantu, & Lapso succederet Orphei.  
Te nunc, Galle, tenet totum Proserpina, & omni  
Vate suo fruitur: dum nos duce & Auspice magno  
Ploramus vidui, non tanto prodiga fletu  
Albion effluxit, cum Musis intimè amicus  
Wilmottus, Venerique suum prope Adonida charus,  
Occubuit, vitae & Genii juvenilibus annis:  
Fluctibus hunc totis Isis maeretur ademptum,  
Atque aegro, mordens ripas, it languidus amni:  
Nunc socios addit Chami Soror unda dolores,  
Moesta super Gallo, & simili tumet aemula fletu:  
Ergo olim gemini vatum duo lumina Fratres  
Occasus adiêre suos? lapsique recedunt  
In tenebras, fracti radios, & luce retusi?  
Nobis donec erat Gallus, totusque superstes,  
Suffecit plenum numen: multo imbre potentem  
Indulgens influxum, & largos Carminis haustus;  
Tunc Cytherae viguere artes, volucrisque Camoenae  
Fulta suis humeris, terras faecemque jacentis  
Orbiculi fugit pennis, & in astra soluto  
Aspirans cursu, patrium affectavit Olympum:  
Huc, Gallo monstrante viam, cita Musa secuta est,  
Sed non Icariis ausis, temeroque volatu,  
Qualis praecipiti in nubes arrepta Columba  
It lapsu, pennas crepitans, atque acta tumultu:  
Quin meliore alâ surgentem imitatur Alaudam,  
Quae leni suspensa aurâ, sese admovet astris  
Paulatìm exultans, & iter deliberat alis:  
Dumque viam rectà vadit, multo ore loquelas  
Vocales agit, & Carmen meditatur eundo:  
Sic Gallus canit, & sic surgit in astra canendo.  
Ille habiles numeros aptâ compage coire  
Fecit, & immissas ignotà vatibus Anglis  
Ire viâ dedit, & proprio decurrere Rivo:  
Tale sibi meruit divina Cecilia Carmen,  
His primum cantata modis; nunc dicimus Artem,  
Quod fuit antè Furor: cum raptus Pegasus oestro  
Exiluit vagus, immensum exspatiatus in aequor,  
Non equitem curans, non fraena undantia Collo:  
Nunc domitus paret imperio, & dat sessile tergum  
Servilis, patiens stimuli, atque assuetus habenis.  
Quis Deus hanc tibi, Galle, artem! quae Musa docebat?  
Multum blanda equidem quondam Natura benigno  
Indulsit gremio, cum primae semina Musae  
Inseruit puero, & Genii rudimenta futuri:  
Ars tandem inventrix operum, & maturior aetas  
Perfecit Musam, vatemque absolvit adultum.  
Sive tibi placuit cato sermone jocari  
Comoedum, & paruâ ante oculos quasi picta tabellâ  
Sistere discursus varios, vitaeque tumultum:  
Ceu gravior tragicos admisit Musa dolores,  
Syrma trahens longum, cultosque accincta cothurnos▪  
Cedat in hoc tibi Shaksperus, Jonsonus in illo.  
Nota tibi ante alios imprimis Fabula vates,  
Virtutem arcanam, & morum Mysteria sacra  
Intùs habens, qualem Chauceri saepe canebat  
Simplex munditie, & sine luxu culta Camoena.  
Non sic Archilochus mordacem accuebat lambum:  
Siquando accinctus Satyrâ, ruis obvius hosti,  
Bellator, numerosque acres in praelia ducis,  
Et vibras calamum, & jacularis missile carmen.  
Sin Puerum aligerum, & blandos describere Amores  
Mens erat: O quali Venerem, quâ Daedalus arte  
Formabas! Non sic speculis expressa videtur,  
Nec talis quondam in tabulâ Dea vixit Apellis:  
Ipsa autem ut molli dilapsa est carmine Musa!  
Fervens, ac si animâ quâdam informata caleret:  
Haec tacitum paulatìm ignem, blandosque tepores  
Admovit Puero, & Tormentum lene Puellis;  
Flete ergo, facilem vobis in Amore Magistrum,  
Pastores, & vos, mollissima pectora, Nymphae:  
Flete omnes unà Rivi, montesque Feraeque,  
Et nemora, haec etenim Galli testantur Amores:  
Flete & vos moesti colitis qui Thamesis undam,  
Nunc primum tristes alieno in funere, Cygni:  
Et siqua in Sylvis Philomela, & siqua per agros,  
Dum Gallus tacet ora, loqui dignabitur Echo.  
Galle cinis tantùm, & magni nunc nominis umbra,  
Te fata abripiunt terris, & postulat orcus:  
At longo indignus fruitur Du— feius aevo;  
Atque parem misero extendit cum carmine vitam  
Bl— orus: sic fata volunt, crudelia fata;  
Quin propera, quò te immitis Proserpina cogit:  
Foelices animae Elysio stant littore passim;  
Et cupidis ardent venientem amplectier ulnis:  
Expectat Cowleus amans, viridique decorus  
Spencerus lauru, & major Miltonus utroque;  
Fallórne? an Gallum video prope flumina Lethes  
Errantem ire inter Sylvas & murmura fluctuum?  
Unà illi it comes, ante alias venerabilis umbras,  
Virgilius, laterique haeret, nam charior illi  
Nemo fuit, Galloque prior nec gratior hospes,  
Novit enim quantum debent sua Carmina Gallo;  
Ergo nunc juncto errantes per littora passu  
Arva legunt, bibulâque ambo exspatiantur arenâ:  
Nunc & humi fessi recubant, Umbrâque fruuntur;  
Interea antiquas iterum juvat ire per artes:  
Et memorem Calamis revocati in Carmina Phoebum,  
Alternant dulces numeros: quae gratia versuum  
Musarumque fuit vivis, quae jungere molles  
Cura modos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos:  
Saepe ibi Virgilius, captus dulcedine Musae,  
Vatemque amplexus, dignas pro carmine grates  
Persolvet, saepe ingeminans.—  
" Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine Poëta,  
Quale sopor fessis in gramine, quale per aestum  
Dulcis aquae saliente sitim restinguere rivo."  
Fortunate senex! cui tanto copia vati  
Contendisse erat, & qui vinci dignus haberis,  
Pene licet Calamo aequiparas & voce Magistrum;  
Fortunate Senex! Tu nunc eris alter ab illo.  Ex Aul. C.  

In obitum J. Drydeni Anglorum vatum facilè Principis.  
QUòd moreris, Drydene, senex & grandior annis,  
Invidiâ justum est exonerare necem:  
Sed quòd Musa tibi & Carmen juvenile valebat,  
Debita erat Genio vita secunda tuo.  Ex A. C.  

In obitum J. Drydeni Anglorum vatis celeberrimi.  
CHaros Drydeni Cineres ●ervate Camoenae,  
Maturum superis tollite ad astra senem;  
Quid pugnas cecinit, teneros quid lusit amores?  
Si nec Mars Coelum, nec Cytherea dabit?  
Heroas frustra immortales Carmine fecit,  
Si vitâ, meritis quam dedit, ipse caret:  
Altè suspiret, Domino moriente, Theatrum,  
Et gemitu longè moenia rupta sonent;  
Non vano juvat exerceri brachia plausu,  
Aegrè sufficiunt planctibus ista suis.  
Quis melius novit risu diducere rictum?  
Quis, lacrymas Tragicâ sollicitare Lyrâ?  
Sive humili socco, tumido indutusve Cothurno,  
Hac Sophocles, illâ parte Menander erat.  
Num prope Virgilii vestigia sacra secutus,  
Angliacos docuit verba Latina modos,  
Credidimus redivivi animam remeasse Maronis,  
Et vatem agnovit Mantua laeta suum:  
Felix morte Senex! in terris cum tibi fatum  
Nil habuit melius, quod daret, astra dedit.  R. H.  

In celeberrimum Joannem Dryden Chauceri Sepulchro Intectum.  
SUaviter hic longo dormi defuncte labore,  
Dum jungit socios una Caverna sinus;  
Dumque tuas canimus laudes, haec accipe blanda  
Mente, minor Vatum quae tibi turba damus.  
Galfridi exuvias quae prisci inclu●erat olim  
Hospite laetetur Nobilis Urna novo:  
Drydeni cineres terrâ hac capiente repôstos,  
Chaucerus tumulo splendidiore jacet:  
O par foelices! hac quis mercede recuset  
Unà vobiscumconcu b uisse, Mori?  Bevill Higgons.  

In obitum Drydeni.  

ERgo mori potuit, notoque occumbere morbo  
Qui nutu peperit mundos, Heroas & astris  
Addidit invictos, animasque resolverat Orco  
Semideus Drydenus? Ubi vis vestra, Camoenae,  
Omnipotens? Latices, choreaeque? Modique revulsos  
Qui scopulos animare solent? Quid, Apollo, salubris  
Ars tua, cum nequeas evolvere morte Clientem?  
Cui jam 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 canent volucres? Quis Panis adoret  
Numen, & indomitum mulcebit Tigrida cantu?  
Dira quis intactum per fulmina Martis Achillem,  
Flammivomasque acies ducet? Quisve eximat atras  
Curarum turmas, & amicos subjuge● hostes?  
Hoc sistat mors laeta triumpho, atque expleat alveum,  
Fessa suis spoliis, uno quae vulnere plagas  
Mille dedit, vitamque ipsam demisit ad umbras.   

Quare, O Melpomene, retices ingrata? Tragoedus  
More suo poscit lacrymas; nil dignius unquam  
Protulit hâc scenâ, quam nunc agit: omnia latè,  
Drydeno fugiente, silent; jam reprimit Echo  
Vocem, nec Thamesis fluctus ad littora volvens  
Ambrosios, simulat studia indefessa Theatri  
Contigui.—  
Si nolit Dea musa, Dolor sua carmina solvet.   

Quid primum incipiam? Vates quo cardine cursum  
Coeperat, atque omnes victor volitavit in oras?  
Ille sed haud gradibus, sub limit protinus altus  
Emicuit, pariterque omnes, seipsumque reliquit:  
Grande laborantem matrem demissa levavit  
Pallas, & inflato spumavit Apolline natus.  
Quoque die major visus mortalia supra  
Exiluit nimbo effulgens, Erroris & Umbras  
Dispulit, assiduéque ignotas extudit artes.  
Postquam animum firmata sacrum suffulserat aetas,  
Meta nec ingenio, nec terminus ullus honori,  
Constitit in terram, & caput inter sydera torsit.  
Phantasia effraenis jussu penetralia pandit,  
Et cunctas reseravit opes, commenta, figuras,  
Erroresque sibi implicitos, mixtasque chimaeras:  
Ille chaos lustravit equo subvectus amandum  
Gorgoneo, flagransque, citum ceu fulgur ab alto,  
Ardua signavit, nec vi, nec luce minore.   

O ubi vis numerum, subtiliaque arma cohortis  
Pacificae! Voces Drydenus detulit omni  
Materiae parilis, & gemmas condidit auro  
Arte nitente suâ, miraculaque intima Musae  
Elicuit, Graecis non vestiganda Poëtis.  
Molles harmoniae, versusque Cupidinis alis  
Induti, mul●o praecordia caeca furore  
Suave subintrârunt, magicoque tremore tenellas  
Mulserunt fibras; Dolor incantatus averno  
Pectoreo secessit, & ad sua Tartara fugit,  
Et spectra, atque angues stygii propago Tyranni,  
Cantus alterni, variéque fluentia verba  
Agmine discordi, vel sopiuêre Tonantem  
Desuper ore minas Martem, vel amore sepultum  
Degeneri excierant, Quam denso fulmine fictae  
Insonuêre tubae! quanto clangore Phalanges  
Horrebant campis, & inexpugnabilis Heros!  
Saepe quis in scenis flammantem stringeret ensem  
Igne micans spumasque vomens, bellumque cieret  
Stultas in Orchestrâ, & tabo violaret Olivam.   

Scriptis vita magis divina, Poëta choream.  
Angelicam nova metra docebat, & illa vicissim  
Nectare facta rigavit: abhinc dein forsitan Error  
Nube fidem involvit; tamen haud de tramite recto  
Flexit iter: Venerans divinâ laude corona  
Illum etiam coluit, dixitque à Numine numen,  
Cur ergò fugit Elysios, & vulgus adorans?  
Quid dabit ulterius Coelum? Nihil obstupet agros  
Sydereos, hymnosque, & inenarrabile carmen;  
Terris invenit coelum, & super aethere terras.   

Nil mortale habuit, nisi mortem; robora membris,  
Atque animo vires sua fudit Musa; quid illi  
Urbs vitio lethalis, & injucunda senectus?  
Sacrilegâ libare manu, insontique nocere  
Contremuit Febris, genuinum & penè calorem  
Deposuit. Quamvis nimium fera, Parca recidit  
Justâ morte quidem, (justâ si morte Poëtas)  
Elusitque modis tormenta: Poëticus ardor  
Ignibus expirat veris; Phoebique sacerdos  
Phoebo congemuit supremum, & Fratris oloris  
More sui, puram fundit cum carmine vitam.  
Ac veluti senio languens, & sole propinquo,  
Nativis moritur flammis Hyperionis Alice;  
Fragranter nebulae cum pompâ sydera lambunt,  
Naturaeque globus patitur, dum sacra volucris  
Ad Patrem redit, & secum genus omne trucidat.  
Sic nostras abiit Phoenix; se nubila pandunt  
Lucida sub pedibus, revehuntque per aethera Coeli  
Indigenem, sociumque viris sociumque Tonanti.   

At foeti properant cineres turgescere; dignus  
Haeres Congrevius, Geniique Monarcha Paterni,  
Instaurat lauros, & Famae remigat alas.  
Orbis ab integro volvetur, & aurea surget  
Aetas; dum sacrâ sedanti voce minaces  
Drydeno superûm nimbos, & ferrea monstra,  
Congrevioque ferum vulgus, Pacisque procellas,  
Aspirent aeterna Deique, & sceptra Wilhelmi.   Tho. Wroughton Commensal. E. Trin. Coll. Oxon.  

In Drydenum, Oxon.  

MUsarum comes insignis, Phoebique sacerdos  
Drydenus, vatum Gloria, morte silet,  
Musa gemit pannis, curisque senescit Apollo,  
Numinis & moestus damnat inane decus:  
Surge age, quid differs taciturna Britannia luctus,  
Proffer, amans, vati debita dona tuo;  
Sparge suos flores, propriáque hunc cingito lauro,  
Sic ver aeternum floreat in tumulo;  
A●qui, Orpheo similis, si iterum revocabis, adempto  
Quae cicinit vivus carmina, sola dabis.  Yours, H. O.  

DRydenus Vatum Princeps & Carminis Auctor,  
Phoebi Deliciae Pieridumque Decus;  
Naturae sed & artis Apex, Amor Urbis & Aulae,  
Flos Saecli, Grantae Gloria, Gentis Honos;  
Lauri Tutamen Socci Laus atque Cothurni:  
Cui nil post Flores defuit atque Fidem.  
Cambridge, May 14. 1700.    

In Joannem Dryden Poetarum facile Principem:  
SI quis in has aedes intret fortassè Viator;  
Busta Poëtarum dum veneranda notet,  
Cernat & exuvias Drydeni: plura referre  
Haud opus, ad laudes Vox ea sola satis.  Gulielmus Marston, A. M. Trin. Coll. Cant.  

In obitum Joannis Drydeni Poetae inter optimos Celeberrimi.  
FInis (quod aiunt) coronat opus,  
Ita & Principium. Hoc Parcis innocuit.  
Ut hujus & alterius faecli ergo claudant & incipiant  
Mortuorum agmen, consuluere optimè  
Rapiendo Maximos: Drydenum scilicet & Beaumontium,  
Hunc Theologum, Poëtarum alterum summum & ultimum.  J. T. A. M. Cantab.  

Drydeni Epitaphium.  
AEDes alma Petri, quâ non Augustior ulla,  
Magnorum ●ervat Nomina & Ossa Virûm,  
Drydeni cape Reliquias, non carior Umbra,  
Non tibi depositum grandius esse potest:  
A Te partus Honos annis puerilibus, à Te  
Aeternum noscit Flebilis Urna decus.   

In obitum celeberrimi Joannis Dryden Armigeri Poetae Lauro longè Dignissimi.  
OCcidit heu Vatum Praesul, tibi Laurus, Apollo!  
Hinc patet & tantum fallere posse Deum:  
Hoc fuit Oraculum; tu semper Laure vire●ces.  
Undè igitur Lauri pallet imago tuae?   

In Eundem.  
MArmora Chauceri lacrymas, Couleiáque sistu●t,  
Dum Drydene pium perficis Arte Chorum.  
Dormis? an Moreris? non dormio: Musa Poëtis  
Vix dormire dedit; sed minùs illa mori.  N. H.  

In obitum celeberrimi. J. Dryden Armigeri.  
SPargite Piërides, lugubri ornate Cupressu  
Fraternum tumulum, spargite saxa Rosis.  
Archipoëta obiit, viridantis Gloria Laurus,  
Quae, laeta olim Hujus cingere plexa caput,;  
Jam proprium flectit, languens & marcida, Fati  
Visa volens Domini participare sui.  
Extincto Phoebo, Stellae nos unde minores  
Lucemus radios Versiculique Modos?  
Unde Elegia tibi dabitur Drydene? Aganippe  
Sacra est cum Venis arida facta tuis.  
Condere Magnates propria ut Monumenta solebant  
Vivi, nè Reliquis non bene culta forent;  
Teque etiam optandum est Tumuli, dum vixeris, Oden  
(Impote quoquam alio) composuisse tuam.  
Si spectas Vatem, quam clarus Apollinis arte!  
Quâ, licet extinctus, vivit & usque viger.  
Dramatibus facilè Princeps; nunc ipse Theatro  
Exiit, exacta est Fabula, Scena cadit.  Edu. Wright.  

De Eodem.  
QUam peterem Musam! demersae fletibus Omnes,  
Lugentes Fratris fata suprema sui.  
Dryden mortem obiit celebris! quis talia fando  
Temperet à lacrymis! Praefica falsa fuge.  
Invida cùm vero secuit Filum Atropos, anni  
Optavit Florem tempora verna legens.  
Cum rident agri variorum flore Colorum,  
Singulus & praebet florida Serta frutex.  
Jam cessent Saphonis avis modulamine, Sappho  
Cantare, in Dryden sit Nota versa gravis.  
Si taceant homines, clamarent Saxa, Feraeque  
Indeplorata & non sua fata sinant.  
Dum vero occumbis, nec eris revocandus ab ullo,  
Quod dici superest, Sit tibi terra levis.  Joh. Wright.  

joanni Dryden Poetae 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
TU Liquido delate Biformis in Aethere Vates,  
(Olim Maeonij Carminis Ales eras.)  
Accipe Cognatos fert quos Tibi Cygnus Honores:  
Non nisi Cygneis Laus tua digna modis.  
At Turpes absint Luctus, nam Funus i●ane,  
Nulla superv●cuo Naenia more juvat.  A●doenus Swan.  

Ad Poetarum Maximum.  
TE laudare opus est, Musis & Apolline dignum  
Te laudare quidem solus Apollo potest▪  
Carmina Scripsisti Tu plurima Apolline digna,  
Nunc Te digna semel Carmina Apollo canat.  john Sparling.  

Epitaphium Johannis Dryden Poetae Laureati.  
HIC socios inter, vates cultissime, Dryden;  
Qui Sacrâ jussus cingere fronde caput.  
Purior electro verbis tibi vena disertis  
Labitur, ut placidis Thamesis unda vadis.  
Ipse potens tragico suras vincire cothurno,  
Caesa gemit numeris turba maligna tuis.  
Tu dederas Patria modulantem voce Maronem,  
Saepe tuo doctum cultius ore loqui.  
Si lingua Angligenûm satis innotesceret orbi,  
Te, Thamesis, Tiberi diceret esse parem.  I. C.  

In Memoriam Johannis Dryden Armigeri omnibus numer is absoluti.  

NEMO Poetarum sic scripsit, nemo Sepulchro  
Aut potuit moriens Nobiliore Tegi.  
Ind jacent cineres Chauceri, atque inde Denha●●  
Umbraque dat socios dextra, sinistra sinus.  
Sed quod in Aeternos jam vivis mortuus Annos,  
Insequiturque Tuos Assequa Fama rogos,  
Hoc tibi non totum debes, dum Garthus amicum  
Et Montacutus junxerit almus opem.  
Nec tibi defuncto sic grates solveret Aetas,  
Ni daret Hic Landes, Hic Monumenta daret.  
Ex Civitate Londinensi Maij Vicessimo tertio, 1700. Henricus Vernon.   

DEscende Coelo, Melpomene, semel  
Cui nascituro carmine plauseris  
Hunc mortuum sacrare Plectro  
Et rapidâ nece vindicare,  
Vixit choreis semper Idoneus,  
Et militavit non sin● glorià,  
Desunctus idem jam Beati  
Pars veneranda chori ●uturus,  
Quo major alter non suit, impiger  
Bello potentes seu caneret duces,  
Seu res agrestes dul●è avenâ,  
Dulce tubâ cecinisse novit.  
Testis mearum Calliope sacra  
Sententiarum, & tu Polyhymnia,  
Utrisque socco vel cothurno  
Perpetuos meruit Triumphos.  
Novem Sororum maxime Pontifex,  
Semper futurus maximus es, lavat  
Quà fabulosus Camus arva  
Qua riguus Tamesinus Amnis.  
Absint, Amici, Funere naeniae  
Tristesque luctus mittite, non obit,  
(Ut Zoilus vult) vectus alis  
Pegaseis Acheronta fugit.  
Si dulcem haberent Orphea Tartara,  
Esset laboris Sisyphus immemor,  
Tutus Prometheus, nec minaces  
Eumenidum quereretur Angues.  
Hâc arte Chaucer nixus, & hâc merens  
Couleius arces attigit igneas,  
Quos inter accumbens Drydenus  
Nectareos bibit ore Succos.  
Busti caduci mitte superfluos  
Sculptor labores, ori hominum omnium  
Mandatus, excellentiora  
Ipse sibi Monumenta struxit.  
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〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  P. W. Trin. Coll. Cant.   

In Obitum Celeberrimi Poetae Joannis Dryden, Armigeri.  
PI●darus Anglorum Magnus, cujusque ●enilem  
O●navit nuper frontem ●arnassia Laurus,  
Sive Cothurnatum molitur Musa laborem,  
Sive lev●m ludit Soccum, seu grande Maronis  
Immortalis Epos tentat, seu Carmine pingit  
Mordaci mores hominum, nunc occidit, eheu!  
Occidit, atque tulit secum Permessidos undas;  
Et Fontem, exhausit totum Drydenius Heros.  
Heu miserande senex! Jam frigida tempora circ●m  
Marcessit Laurus, Musae, moestissima turba  
Circumstant, largoque humectant Imbre ●adaver:  
Sheffeildum en video lacrymis multoque dolore  
Formosum, aetatis Flaccum, Vatisque Patronum;  
Te Montacuti, Te cujus Musa Triumphos  
Carmine Boynaeos cecinit, Magnumque Wilhelmum  
Aeternavit, & olim Boynam, ignobile ●lumen;  
Teque, O! Et Legum, & Musarum gloria! Et alter  
Moecenae; cui Lingua olim facunda labantem  
Defendit Mitrae Causam; nec terruit Aula  
Prava jubens— Vos, O jam tangunt funera vatis!  
●amque dies aderat, magnâ stipante cateruâ,  
Quo Phoebaea cohors sacras comita●ur ad urnam  
Reliq●ias, & Supremum pia solvit Honorem;  
Jamque graves planctus, jamque il●ae●abile murmur  
Audio Melpomenis l●tè, dum noster Apollo  
Flebilis ante omnes, Sacvillus, tristia ducit  
Agmina Pieridum, Cytharamque accomodat Odae;  
Ipse ego, dum totidem comitentur Funera Musae,  
Ipse sequar maestus; Bustum venerabile ●l●tu  
Carminibusque struam multis, Animamque Poetae  
His saltem Donis cumulabo, & fungar inani  
Munere—  
At Te Musa mori vetat, O! Post Fata, vel ipsa  
Marmora, cum annorum fuerint rubigine scabra,  
Major eris vivo; Tibi Scripta perennius aere  
Aut Saxo, condent Monum●ntum aeterne per Orbem,  
Secula cuncta legant, & Te mirentur in illis.  joannes Phillips, Interioris Templi Alumnus.  

In Obitum Drydeni Celeberrimi.  
PLangite Pierides, Drydeni plangite Mortem,  
Quem Parcae nuper surripuêre truces:  
Sic jovis imperium voluit! Gens Anglica luget  
Abreptum Vatem, non habitura parem.  
Non opus est Tumuli, non pompae Funeris illi,  
Dum valeant Musae, Virgiliusque manet.  Clobery Bromley, 14. Annorum.  

In Obitum Drydeni Desideratissimi.  

QUEM peperêre novem Musae, Rex alter amabat,  
Mors timuit, Coelo Iupiter ipse locat.  
Qui tamen in Coelo est, (heu lamentabile Fatum!)  
Invida at indigno pulvere terra premit.  
Mors habet, at timuit: Coelo est, quem terra recondit  
Qui cecinit, mutus; Qui moriturque Canit.  D. A. Ex Aede Christi Oxon.  

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〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  josephus Warren.  

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〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  Rob. Muchall, A. B. E. Coll. Trin. Oxon.   

In Obitum Johannis Dryden Armigeri, Poet●● omnibus numeris absoluti.  
AETernùm precor, Aeternum miser iste silescat,  
Cui nunc ingrato lingua silere potest▪  
Impia perpetuis damnetur vita tenebris,  
Inter cognatas deliteatque feras.  
Exulet indignus nostris procul exulet oris  
Ad Scythiae, ad saevas Tartar●aeve plagas;  
Alma ubi doctrinae sacrae non lumina fulgent,  
Error ubi & feritas barbara regnat ovans.  
Sed quis divino Musarum inimicus honori  
Oblitusque tui nominis esse potest?  
Quem non, o vates, mi●a dulcedine mulsit  
Lingua tua Aonijs, Lingua canora modis?  
Quem non elatae numerosa superbia Musae  
Movit, magniloquis Musa severa sonis?  
Fallor, an ipse etiam videor sentire citatum  
Motum inflammari meque calore novo?  
Sentio Musa suâ causâque animata superbit,  
Et mens insolito plena furore tumet.  
O mihi Drydeniis insurgant carmina verbis  
Dignè Drydeniam, lugeam ut ipse necem.  
Tu tantus, nemo exprimeret dispendia tanti,  
Sunt ploranda suo carmine fata sua.  
Qualiter Antonius Cleopatra funera deflet,  
Qualiter Antoniuses vel Cleopatra sui.  
Sed Lingua ista silet, quâ olim dicente silebant  
Omnia, & ingratos composuere sonos.  
Lingua cui toties, sylvae lapidesque sequaces,  
Et tumida immensi paruit unda freti.  
Barbara quae toties mollivit pectora victrix  
(Quo solum potuit) funere victa silet.  
O Solitos ponas ludo, lugubre theatrum,  
Ponas scena tuos deliciosa jocos.  
Aut saltem latè resonent plangoribus, olim  
Quae plausu effuso personuere loc●.  
Vos castae Musae lachrymas miscete, Poetam  
Ploresque extinctum Phoebe Poeta tuum.  
Musarum certè a Musis plorandus amator,  
Carmine & excellens, carmine dignus erit.  
Cur au●em plorent Musae, cur moestus Apollo,  
Curio magè non Coelum laetitiâ omne sonet?  
Nam sunt Divinae Musae, Divinus Apollo,  
Atque est Divinis additus ille choris.  
Excercet cantum, accumbens mensisque Deorum  
Intentis dicit carmina amaena Deis.  
Quem longum optastis nunc invida Numina habetis,  
Et frueris, vates Delie, vate tuo.  
O utinam tua vita aeterna, ut scripta, fuisset,  
Scripta nisi extremo non peritura die.  
Vos superi, (modo cum superis contendere fas sit)  
Aut Coelum factis insimulare suis,  
Cur vos suprà alios illi ornamenta dedistis  
Non longos etiam suprà aliosque dies?  
Cur mortali homini mens immortalior insit,  
Omne nisi in vitâ sit similisque Deo?  
Divinis autem nostrum est submittere jussis,  
Et velle, aeterni quod voluere Dei.  
Sed levius damnum ut fiat, Congreve resurgas,  
Et felix pergat carmine Musa novo.  
Ipse Poeta locum possis supplere Poetae  
Fulgebitque suo funere, vita tua.  
Cum moritur Phaenix hoc quod compenset habemus,  
Ex summo est Phaenix altera nata rogo.  Jo. Wyvill e Coll. Sacrosancta & individua Trinitatis Catab.  
FINIS.