To the Memory of Mr. Dryden

If generous gratitude could e'er excuse The sallies of a long-neglected Muse, Mine pleads that cause alone, and so should be From censure, or malicious pity free: For all the pleasures she from Dryden knew, She pays this tribute, and she thinks it due.

Still had she slept, unmov'd by all beside, No rhymes attempted, and no numbers try'd, If to another man he could impart His real nature, and his wondrous art: Both did he temper right, and raise from thence Unrival'd numbers and unequal sense.

Most that remain (for so to me they seem) Are but the shadows and the ghosts of him: Some few, it is confess'd, have gain'd their cause, And justify'd their merit by applause. 'Tis true, their diction 's good, their style is clear, And art and labour through the whole appear; But let us search them well, where shall we find His force of thought, his energy of mind? The words that move us with mysterious charms? The soul that actuates, and the fire that warms? A ghost sometimes appears to mortal view, And bears the shape of human-kind, but not the substance too.

Words are like colours in two artists' hands, Of different skill, where each the best commands.

One paints and pleases, but the pleasure lies Not in the mind, but only in the eyes; The colours, justly mix'd, delude the sight, And, gaily shining, give a false delight: For far from thence is honest Nature chac'd, Asham'd to see herself so much disgrac'd.

Not so the other, whose superior art To lifeless colours can a living soul impart: Bold are his strokes, but manag'd still with care, For Nature always claims the better share; Colours, proportion, distance, are combin'd To please the sight, and strength to charm the mind.

Yet not the best a full perfection gain'd, But in one province still the painter reign'd: Water and land a different master own, And history is always found alone: Peculiar hands give trees and flowers the best, The mimic drolls below, distinguish'd from the rest.

Our wondrous bard, whose comprehending soul Could reach all Nature, and describe her whole; To single beauties scorn'd to be confin'd, But shew'd the vigour of extensive mind; In all the nice proportions we behold, Like Angelo correct, like Titian bold.

If homely cots, or humble shepherds ways, Employ'd his Muse, how calmly did they please, And sink our passions to a rural ease! Or, when he sung th' excesses of the great, High palaces, the trifling pomp of state, Th' ungovern'd soul her reason laid aside, Took the fond hint, and was debas'd to pride. Landskip in all its various face he shew'd, Here winding rivers through the meadows flow'd, And there the fruitful trees complain'd th' unequal load; Here mountains rise aloft, and dare the sky, There dreary caves the face of Nature fly; Here night a pleasing horror does display, And with its gloomy charms excels the day; There the bright morn expands its radiant wings, And gives new vigour with the light it brings: His universal Muse with equal ease Could paint or dismal storms or calmest seas, The miseries of war, and joys of peace.

But what nor paint can tell, nor pencil reach, His larger genius could divinely teach; Describe the inner passions of the man, And show the steps from whence they first began.

Love he describ'd, though different are its ways, How the first fluttering pain disturbs our days, And gives our nights but half their usual ease. Then our kind thoughts improve the passion higher, 'Tis restless rage, 'tis covetous desire, And love unbounded, and impetuous fire: Till at the last with extasy we find Extremest pleasures in one moment join'd, And joys immense, which leave all other joys behind.

O Anthony! how nobly dost thou charm! O Cleopatra! how dost thou disarm The roughest spirits, and the coldest warm! Nor shall she pass unmention'd, who maintain'd The cause of love, and shew'd her love unfeign'd; Who scorn'd t'excuse what she with reason sought, A certain pleasure, and imagin'd fault; But boldly urg'd the argument she should, Th' impulse of nature, and the force of blood. So did he move the soul, so touch the heart With virgin passions, not debauch'd by art.

Thus could he talk of love, and lovers' deeds, Yet give a loose to rage, and manly rage succeeds.

His satire, free, impartial, and severe, At once gave pleasure, and created fear: Who would not read what he so justly writ? But who would be the subject of his wit?

Could but our modern satirists have known His way of satire, they 'd despise their own; Soon would they see the sharpest Muse disclaims Ill-manner'd language, and opprobrious names; That sordid railing is the poor retreat Of angry malice, or unmanly wit. He shews, what we from him alone can feel, Satire may bite, and yet may be genteel.

Audacious fancy fain would hurry on, And tread those paths which reason ought to shun; For Homer and the Mantuan are in view, A dangerous chace, nor must my Muse pursue: O'er steepy hills, tremendous to the sight, Their fiery coursers kept an equal flight, His close pursued, nor fear'd the dismal height. My humble Muse looks upward with despair, Admires their strength, but wonders how they dare Attempt the regions of the upper air. Suffice it her to say, he never fail'd Wherever his adventurous Muse assail'd, And, all attempting, he in all prevail'd.

What more had he to do? his conquering lays Were above censure, and commanded praise: Secure of fame, he laid the laurel down, Enough distinguish'd by his sense alone; And smil'd to see, with a disdainful air, Contending rhymers use their utmost care To reach that bays they want the head to bear.

Fatigu'd with life, with pleasure he retir'd From the vain world, both envy'd and admir'd.