'T was on a joyless and a gloomy morn,
Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn,
When Damon, who designed to pass the day
With hounds and horns, and chace the flying prey,
}
{ Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
{ The welkin pitched with sullen clouds around,
{ An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.
Thus while he stood, and sighing did survey
The fields, and curst the ill omens of the day,
He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace:
Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
And sent his voice before him from afar.
"Return," he cried, "return, unhappy swain,
The spungy clouds are filled with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only crossed,
But even the spring, the spring itself is lost.
Amyntas—oh!"—he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guessed.
Equal with heaven young Damon loved the boy,
The boast of nature, both his parents' joy.
His graceful form revolving in his mind;
So great a genius, and a soul so kind,
Gave sad assurance that his fears were true;
Too well the envy of the gods he knew:
For when their gifts too lavishly are placed,
Soon they repent, and will not make them last.
For sure it was too bountiful a dole,
The mother's features, and the father's soul.
Then thus he cried:—"The morn bespoke the news;
The morning did her cheerful light diffuse;
}
{ But see how suddenly she changed her face,
{ And brought on clouds and rain, the day's disgrace;
{ Just such, Amyntas, was thy promised race.
What charms adorned thy youth, where nature smiled,
And more than man was given us in a child!
His infancy was ripe; a soul sublime
In years so tender that prevented time:
}
{ Heaven gave him all at once; then snatched away,
{ Ere mortals all his beauties could survey;
{ Just like the flower that buds and withers in a day.
MENALCAS.
The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest,
Reclined his dying head upon her breast.
}
{ The mournful family stood all around;
{ One groan was heard, one universal sound:
{ All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow drowned.
So dire a sadness sat on every look,
Even death repented he had given the stroke.
He grieved his fatal work had been ordained,
But promised length of life to those who yet remained.
The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had bribed him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny controul;
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resigned his son, but not resigned his heart.
Patient as Job; and may he live to see,
Like him, a new increasing family!
DAMON.
Such is my wish, and such my prophecy;
For yet, my friend, the beauteous mould remains;
Long may she exercise her fruitful pains!
But, ah! with better hap, and bring a race
More lasting, and endued with equal grace!
Equal she may, but farther none can go;
For he was all that was exact below.
MENALCAS.
Damon, behold yon breaking purple cloud;
Hear'st thou not hymns and songs divinely loud?
There mounts Amyntas; the young cherubs play
About their godlike mate, and sing him on his way.
He cleaves the liquid air; behold, he flies,
And every moment gains upon the skies.
The new-come guest admires the ethereal state,
The sapphire portal, and the golden gate;
And now admitted in the shining throng,
He shows the passport which he brought along.
His passport is his innocence and grace,
Well known to all the natives of the place.
Now sing, ye joyful angels, and admire
Your brother's voice that comes to mend your quire:
Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For, like Amyntas, none is left below.
ON
THE DEATH
OF
A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
H e, who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind,
Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er,
And, after some few leaves, should find no more.
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnished; so bestowed,
As more was never to one soul allowed:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recal,
Ere we could spare the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappeared, was rarefied,
For 'tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood;
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remained of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had washed it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love;
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatched away.
Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone;
And yet we murmur that he went so soon,
Though miracles are short, and rarely shown.
Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
UPON
YOUNG Mr ROGERS,
OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
The family of Rogers seems to have been of considerable antiquity
in Gloucestershire. They possessed the estate of Dowdeswell during
the greater part of the 16th and 17th centuries. Many of
their monuments are in the church of Dowdeswell, of which they
were patrons.—See Atkyn's Gloucestershire. The subject of
this epitaph was probably of this family.
O f gentle blood, his parents only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure.
Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race:
More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date,
Too early fitted for a better state:
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way.
ON THE DEATH OF
Mr PURCELL.
IN MUSIC.
Henry Purcell, as a musician, is said by Burney to have been
as much the pride of an Englishman, as Shakespeare in the drama,
Milton in epic poetry, or Locke and Newton in their several departments
of philosophy. He was born in 1658, and died in
1695, at the premature age of 37 years. Dryden, to whose productions
he had frequently added the charms of music, devoted
a tribute to his memory in the following verses, which, with others
by inferior bards, were prefixed to a collection of Purcell's music,
published two years after his death, under the title of Orpheus
Britannicus. The Ode was set to music by Dr Blow, and performed
at the concert in York Buildings. Dr Burney says, that
the music is composed in fugue and imitation; but appears laboured,
and is wholly without invention or pathos.
The "Orpheus Britannicus" being inscribed by the widow of
Purcell to the Hon. Lady Howard, both Sir John Hawkins and
Dr Burney have been led into the mistake of supposing, that the
person so named was no other than Lady Elizabeth Dryden, our
author's wife. Mr Malone has detected this error; and indeed
the high compliments paid by the dedicator to Mr Purcell's patroness,
as an exquisite musician, a person of extensive influence,
and one whose munificence had covered the remains of Purcell
with "a fair monument," are irreconcileable with the character,
situation, and pecuniary circumstances of Lady Elizabeth Dryden.
The Lady Howard of the dedication must, unquestionably, have
been the wife of the Honourable Sir Robert Howard; whence it
follows, that the "honourable gentleman, who had the dearest, and
most deserved relation to her, and whose excellent compositions were
the subject of Purcell's last and best performances in music," was
not our author, as has been erroneously supposed, but his brother-in-law,
the said Sir Robert Howard, who continued to the last to
be an occasional author, and to contribute songs to the dramatic
performances of the day.[94]
Although Dryden's lady certainly did not erect Purcell's monument,
it is more than probable, judging from internal evidence,
that the poet contributed the inscription, which runs thus:
Here lies
Henry Purcell, Esq.
Who left this life,
And is gone to that blessed place,
Where only his harmony
can be exceeded.
Obiit 21mo die Novembris,
Anno ætatis suæ 37mo,
Annoq. Domini, 1695.
The stone over the grave bore the following epitaph:
Plaudito, felices Superi, tanto hospite; nostris
Præfuerat, vestris additur ille choris:
Invida nec vobis Purcellum terra reposcat,
Questa decus secli, deliciasque breves
Tam cito decessisse, modos cui singula debet
Musa, prophana suos, religiosa suos:
Vivit Io et vivat, dum vicina organa spirant,
Dumque colet numeris turba canora Deum.
Of the following ode, it may be briefly observed, that it displays
much conceit, and little pathos, although the introductory
simile is beautifully worded.
ON
THE DEATH OF
Mr PURCELL.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR BLOW.
M ark how the lark and linnet sing,
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And, listening, silently obey.
II.
So ceased the rival crew when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame.
Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man:
The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore;
Had he been there,
Their sovereign's fear
Had sent him back before.
The power of harmony too well they knew:
He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.
III.
The heavenly choir, who heard his notes from high,
Let down the scale of music from the sky;
They handed him along,
And all the way he taught, and all the way they sung.
Ye brethren of the lyre, and tuneful voice,
Lament his lot, but at your own rejoice:
Now live secure, and linger out your days;
The gods are pleased alone with Purcell's lays,
Nor know to mend their choice.
EPITAPH
ON THE
LADY WHITMORE.
This was perhaps Frances, daughter of Sir William Brooke, Knight
of the Bath, and wife to Sir Thomas Whitmore, Knight-Baronet.
F air, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one;
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.
Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be returned,
So loved when living, and, when dead, so mourned.
EPITAPH
ON
Mrs MARGARET PASTON,
OF BURNINGHAM, IN NORFOLK.
This is an ancient and distinguished family in Norfolk. See Bloomfield's
topographical account of that shire.
}
{ S o fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
{ So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
{ Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well exprest,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravished from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
John Powlet, fifth Marquis of Winchester, was remarkable
for his steady loyalty to Charles I. He garrisoned for the king
his fine castle at Basing, and underwent a siege of two years, from
August 1643 to October 16th, 1645; on which day it was taken
by Cromwell, by storm, after having been defended with great
gallantry to the very last extremity. The Marquis had written,
in every window of the house, with a diamond, the motto Aymez
Loyaulté. The parliamentary leaders, incensed at this device,
burned down this noble seat, (a conflagration which Cromwell
imputes to accident,) and destroyed and plundered property to the
amount of L. 200,000. The Marquis himself was made prisoner.
The particulars of this memorable siege were printed at Oxford,
in 1645; and Oliver's account of the storm is published in Collins's
"Peerage," from a manuscript in the Museum. The Marquis
of Winchester survived the Restoration; and, having died
premier marquis of England in 1674, was buried at Englefield.
This monument, upon which our author's verses are engraved, is
made of black and white marble; and a compartment underneath
the lines bears this inscription: "The Lady Marchioness Dowager,
in testimony of her love and sorrow, gave this monument to
the memory of a most affectionate, tender husband." On a flat
marble stone, beneath the monument, is the following epitaph:
"Here lieth interred the body of the most noble and mighty
prince, John Powlet, Marquis of Winchester, Earl of Wiltshire,
Baron of St John of Basing, first Marquis of England: A man of
exemplary piety towards God, and of inviolable fidelity towards
his sovereign; in whose cause he fortified his house of Basing,
and defended it against the rebels to the last extremity. He
married three wives: the first was Jane, daughter of Thomas, Viscount
Savage, and of Elizabeth his wife, daughter and co-heir of
Thomas Darcey, Earl of Rivers; by whom he had issue Charles,
now Marquis of Winchester. His second wife was Honora, daughter
of Richard Burgh, Earl of St Alban's and Clanricarde, and of
Frances, his wife, daughter and heir of Sir Francis Walsingham,
knight, and principal secretary of state to Queen Elizabeth; by
whom he had issue four sons and three daughters. His last wife,
who survived him, was Isabella, daughter of William, Viscount
Stafford, second son of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel and
Surrey, Earl Marshal of England, and of Mary his wife, sister
and sole heir of Henry, Lord Stafford, who was the heir-male of
the most high, mighty, and most noble Prince Edward, last Duke
of Buckingham of that most illustrious name and family, by
whom he had no issue. He died in the 77th year of his age, on
the 5th of March, in the year of our Lord 1674.—By Edward
Walker, Garter King of Arms."
EPITAPH
ON THE
MONUMENT
OF
THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
H e who, in impious times, undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirmed the cause for which he fought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompence.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear;
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer, such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.
EPITAPH
ON
Sir PALMES FAIRBONE'S Tomb
IN
WESTMINSTER-ABBEY.
Sacred to the immortal memory of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight,
Governor of Tangier; in execution of which command he was mortally
wounded by a shot from the Moors, then besieging the town,
in the forty-sixth year of his age, October 24, 1680.
Y e sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturbed by wars, in quiet sleep;
}
{ Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
{ Fairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,
{ And be the town's palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
}
{ From thence returning with deserved applause,
{ Against the Moors his well-fleshed sword he draws;
{ The same the courage, and the same the cause.
}
{ His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
{ As in some great and regular design,
{ All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
}
{ Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright,
{ Like rising flames expanding in their height;
{ The martyr's glory crowned the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well;
Which his pleased eyes beheld before their close,
Followed by thousand victims of his foes.[95]
To his lamented loss, for time to come,
His pious widow consecrates this tomb.
ON
THE MONUMENT
OF A
FAIR MAIDEN LADY,
WHO DIED AT BATH,
AND IS THERE INTERRED.
This lady lies buried in the Abbey-Church at Bath. The lines are accompanied
by the following inscription upon a monument of white
marble: "Here lies the body of Mary, third daughter of Richard
Frampton of Moreton, in Dorsetshire, Esq. and of Jane his wife,
sole daughter of Sir Francis Cothington of Founthill, in Wilts,
who was born January 1, 1676, and died, after seven weeks illness,
on the 6th of September, 1698.
"This monument was erected by Catharine Frampton, her second sister
and executrix, in testimony of her grief, affection, and gratitude."
B elow this marble monument is laid
All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
Preserve, O sacred tomb, thy trust consigned;
The mold was made on purpose for the mind:
And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
One atom could be mixed of other clay;
Such were the features of her heavenly face,
Her limbs were formed with such harmonious grace:
So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the soul;
Which her own inward symmetry revealed,
And like a picture shone, in glass annealed;
Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light;
Too piercing, else, to be sustained by sight.
Each thought was visible that rolled within;
As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
And heaven did this transparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thought to hide.
All white, a virgin-saint, she sought the skies,
For marriage, though it sullies not, it dyes.
}
{ High though her wit, yet humble was her mind;
{ As if she could not, or she would not find
{ How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet she had learned so much of heaven below,
That when arrived, she scarce had more to know;
But only to refresh the former hint,
And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, as she had no time to spare
For human thoughts, but was confined to prayer;
Yet in such charities she passed the day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an hour to pray.
A soul so calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which passion could but curl, not discompose.
}
{ A female softness, with a manly mind;
{ A daughter duteous, and a sister kind;
{ In sickness patient, and in death resigned.
UNDER
MR MILTON'S PICTURE,
BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST.
This inscription appeared under the engraving prefixed to Tonson's
folio edition of the Paradise Lost, published by subscription, under
the patronage of Somers, in 1688. Dryden was one of the subscribers.
Atterbury, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, was active in
procuring subscribers. See a letter of his to Tonson, Malone's
Life of Dryden, p. 203.
Mr Malone regards Dryden's hexastich as an amplification of Selvaggi's
distich, addressed to Milton while at Rome:
Græcia Mœonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem.
T hree poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both, the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
AND
LYRICAL PIECES.
FAREWELL, FAIR ARMIDA.
A SONG.
This Song was written on the death of Captain Digby, a younger
son of the Earl of Bristol, who was killed in the great sea-fight
between the English and Dutch, on the 28th May, 1672. The
relentless beauty to whom the lines were addressed, was Frances
Stuart, Duchess of Richmond; called in the Memoires de Grammont,
La Belle Stuart. Count Hamilton there assures us, that
her charms made conquest of Charles II. and were the occasion
of much jealousy to the Countess of Castlemaine. Dryden's song is
parodied in "The Rehearsal," in that made by "Tom Thimble's
first wife after she was dead." "Farewell, fair Armida," is
printed in the Covent-Garden Drollery, 1672, p. 16. where there
is an exculpatory answer by the Lady, but of little merit.
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now called by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love were to find, by delay,
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight—not to cost you a tear;
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh—it was given by me.
THE
FAIR STRANGER,
A SONG.
These verses are addressed to Louise de la Querouailles. That lady
came to England with the Duchess of Orleans, when she visited her
brother Charles II. in 1670. The beauty of this fair stranger made
the intended impression on Charles; he detained her in England,
and created her Duchess of Portsmouth. Notwithstanding the detestation
in which she was held by his subjects, on account of her religion,
country, and politics, she continued to be Charles's principal
favourite till the very hour of his death, when he recommended her
and her son to his successor's protection.
I.
H appy and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair
To find a new victorious fair:
II.
Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without controul,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.
III.
Your smiles have more of conquering charms,
Than all your native country's arms;
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.
IV.
But in your eyes, O! there's the spell!
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay;
Yet kill us if you go away.
A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY.
St Cecilia was, according to her legend, a Roman virgin of
rank, who flourished during the reign of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.
She was a Christian, and, by her purity of life, and constant
employment in the praises of her Maker, while yet on earth, obtained
intercourse with an angel. Being married to Valerianus,
a Pagan, she not only prevailed upon him to abstain from
using any familiarity with her person, but converted him and his
brother to Christianity. They were all martyrs for the faith in
the reign of Septimius Severus. Chaucer has celebrated this legend
in the "Second Nonne's Tale," which is almost a literal
translation from the "Golden Legend" of Jacobus Januensis.
As all professions and fraternities, in ancient times, made choice of
a tutelar saint, Cecilia was elected the protectress of music and
musicians. It was even believed that she had invented the organ,
although no good authority can be discovered for such an assertion.
Her festival was celebrated from an early period by those
of the profession over whom she presided.
The revival of letters, with the Restoration, was attended with a
similar resuscitation of the musical art; but the formation of a
Musical Society, for the annual commemoration of St Cecilia's
day, did not take place until 1680. An ode, written for the occasion,
was set to music by the most able professor, and rehearsed
before the society and their stewards upon the 22d November,
the day dedicated to the patroness. The first effusions of this
kind are miserable enough. Mr Malone has preserved a few verses
of an ode, by an anonymous author, in 1633; that of 1684
was furnished by Oldham, whom our author has commemorated
by an elegy; that of 1685 was written by Nahum Tate, and is
given by Mr Malone, Vol. I. p. 274. There was no performance
in 1686; and, in 1687, Dryden furnished the following ode,
which was set to music by Draghi, an eminent Italian composer.
Of the annual festival, Motteux gives the following account:
"The 22d of November, being St Cecilia's day, is observed
throughout all Europe by the lovers of music. In Italy, Germany,
France, and other countries, prizes are distributed on that
day, in some of the most considerable towns, to such as make the
best anthem in her praise.... On that day, or the next when
it falls on a Sunday, ... most of the lovers of music, whereof many
are persons of the first rank, meet at Stationers' Hall in London,
not through a principle of superstition, but to propagate the
advancement of that divine science. A splendid entertainment is
provided, and before it is always a performance of music, by the
best voices and hands in town: the words, which are always in the
patronesses praise, are set by some of the greatest masters. This
year [1691] Dr John Blow, that famous musician, composed the
music; and Mr D'Urfey, whose skill in things of that nature is
well known, made the words. Six stewards are chosen for each
ensuing year; four of which are either persons of quality or gentlemen
of note, and the two last either gentlemen of their majesties
music, or some of the chief masters in town.... This feast
is one of the genteelest in the world; there are no formalities nor
gatherings as at others, and the appearance there is always very
splendid. Whilst the company is at table, the hautboys and trumpets
play successively."
The merit of the following Ode has been so completely lost in
that of "Alexander's Feast," that few readers give themselves even
the trouble of attending to it. Yet the first stanza has exquisite
merit; and although the power of music is announced, in those
which follow, in a manner more abstracted and general, and,
therefore, less striking than when its influence upon Alexander and
his chiefs is placed before our eyes, it is perhaps only our intimate
acquaintance with the second ode that leads us to undervalue the
first, although containing the original ideas, so exquisitely brought
out and embodied in "Alexander's Feast."
A
SONG
FOR
ST CECILIA'S DAY,
22d NOVEMBER, 1687.
I.