John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series Read online

  JOHN DRYDEN

  (1631-1700)

  Contents

  The Poetry Collections

  EARLY POEMS

  ANNUS MIRABILIS

  MAC FLECKNOE

  ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL

  THE MEDALL

  RELIGIO LAICI

  THE HIND AND THE PANTHER

  EPISTLES AND COMPLIMENTARY ADDRESSES

  ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS

  SONGS, ODES AND LYRICAL PIECES

  FABLES ANCIENT AND MODERN

  POETRY FROM THE PLAYS

  TRANSLATIONS

  The Poems

  LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Plays

  THE WILD GALLANT

  THE RIVAL LADIES

  THE INDIAN QUEEN

  THE INDIAN EMPEROR

  SECRET-LOVE

  SIR MARTIN MAR-ALL

  THE TEMPEST

  TYRANNICK LOVE

  AN EVENING’S LOVE

  ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE

  MARRIAGE À LA MODE

  THE ASSIGNATION

  AMBOYNA

  AURENG-ZEBE

  THE STATE OF INNOCENCE AND FALL OF MAN

  ALL FOR LOVE

  OEDIPUS

  TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

  LIMBERHAM

  THE SPANISH FRYAR

  THE DUKE OF GUISE

  ALBION AND ALBANIUS

  DON SEBASTIAN, KING OF PORTUGAL

  AMPHITRYON

  KING ARTHUR

  CLEOMENES, THE SPARTAN HERO

  LOVE TRIUMPHANT

  CONTRIBUTIONS TO VANBRUGH’S ADAPTATION OF FLETCHER’S THE PILGRIM

  The Non-Fiction

  ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY

  HIS MAJESTIES DECLARATION DEFENDED

  The Biographies

  THE LIFE OF JOHN DRYDEN by Sir Walter Scott

  LIVES OF THE POETS: DRYDEN by Samuel Johnson

  THE AGE OF DRYDEN by Richard Garnett

  BRIEF LIFE OF JOHN DRYDEN by George Gilfillan

  © Delphi Classics 2013

  Version 1

  JOHN DRYDEN

  By Delphi Classics, 2013

  NOTE

  When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

  The Poetry Collections

  John Dryden was born in the village rectory of Aldwincle, near Thrapston, in Northamptonshire.

  Another view of the house

  John Dryden by James Maubert, 1695

  EARLY POEMS

  John Dryden was born in the village of Aldwincle in Northamptonshire, where his maternal grandfather was Rector of All Saints. His family was descended from Puritan landowning gentry that supported the Puritan cause and Parliament and interestingly he was also a second cousin of Jonathan Swift. As a boy Dryden lived in the nearby village of Titchmarsh, before being sent to Westminster School as a King’s Scholar, under the tutelage of Dr Richard Busby. Dryden clearly respected the Headmaster and later sent two of his sons to school at Westminster. As a humanist public school, Westminster maintained a curriculum which trained pupils in the art of rhetoric and the presentation of arguments for both sides of a given issue - a skill which would remain with Dryden and influence his later writing and thinking. The Westminster curriculum also included weekly translation assignments that developed Dryden’s capacity for assimilation.

  The young poet’s years at Westminster were not uneventful and his first published poem, an elegy with a strong royalist feel on the death from smallpox of his school friend Henry, Lord Hastings alludes to the execution of King Charles I, which took place on 30 January 1649, close to the school where Dr Busby had first prayed for the King and then locked in his schoolboys to prevent their attending the spectacle.

  In 1650 Dryden joined Trinity College, Cambridge, where he experienced a return to the religious and political ethos of his childhood, as the Master of Trinity was a Puritan preacher, who had been a rector in Dryden’s home village. Though there is little specific information on Dryden’s undergraduate years, he would most certainly have followed the standard curriculum of classics, rhetoric and mathematics. In 1654 the poet obtained his degree, graduating with great distinction and in June of the same year Dryden’s father died, leaving him land that generated a little income, though not enough to live on.

  Returning to London during the Protectorate, Dryden obtained work from Cromwell’s Secretary of State, John Thurloe. This appointment may have been the result of influence exercised on his behalf by his cousin the Lord Chamberlain, Sir Gilbert Pickering. At Cromwell’s funeral on 23 November 1658, Dryden became acquainted with the Puritan poets John Milton and Andrew Marvell. Shortly after this time he published his first important poem, Heroique Stanzas (1658), a eulogy on Cromwell’s death, serving as a cautious and prudent emotional display. In 1660 Dryden celebrated the Restoration of the monarchy and the return of Charles II with Astraea Redux, an authentic royalist panegyric. In this work the interregnum is illustrated as a time of anarchy and Charles is depicted as the restorer of peace and order.

  After the Restoration, Dryden quickly established himself as the leading poet and literary critic of his day and he transferred his allegiances to the new government. Along with Astraea Redux, Dryden welcomed the new regime with two more panegyrics; To His Sacred Majesty: A Panegyric on his Coronation (1662), and To My Lord Chancellor (1662). These poems indicate that Dryden was looking to court a possible patron, though he was ultimately to make a living writing for publishers and the reading public, rather than for the aristocracy.

  The charismatic Rev. Dr. Richard Busby (1606–1695), who was an Anglican priest serving as headmaster of Westminster School for more than fifty-five years.

  CONTENTS

  Upon the Death of the Lord Hastings

  Heroick Stanza’s: A Poem upon the Death of His Late Highness, Oliver, Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland in Heroick Stanza’s

  Astræa Redux.

  To His Sacred Majesty.

  To my Lord Chancellor, presented on New-Years-Day, 1662

  Threnodia Augustalis

  Charles II, whose reign commenced in 1660 and was celebrated in Dryden’s early work ‘Astraea Redux’, a royalist panegyric in which the poet welcomes the new regime. It is a vivid emotional display that overshadows the cautious ‘Heroique Stanzas’ that Dryden composed for Oliver Cromwell’s death.

  Upon the Death of the Lord Hastings

  MUST Noble Hastings Immaturely die,

  (The Honour of his ancient Family?)

  Beauty and Learning thus together meet,

  To bring a Winding for a Wedding-sheet?

  Must Vertue prove Death’s Harbinger? Must She, 5

  With him expiring, feel Mortality?

  Is Death (Sin’s wages) Grace’s now? shall Art

  Make us more Learned, only to depart?

  If Merit be Disease, if Vertue Death;

  To be Good, Not to be, who’d then bequeath 10

  Himself to Discipline? Who’d not esteem

  Labour a Crime, Study self-murther deem?

  Our Noble Youth now have pretence to be

  Dunces securely, Ign’rant healthfully.

  Rare Linguist! whose Worth speaks it self; whose Praise, 15

  Though not his Own, all Tongues Besides do raise:

  Then Whom Great Alexander may seem less,

  Who conquer’d Men, but not their Languages.

  In his Mouth Nations speak; his Tongue might be

  Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy. 20

  His native Soyl was the four parts o’ th’ Earth;

&nb
sp; All Europe was too narrow for his Birth.

  A young Apostle; and (with rev’rence may

  I speak ‘it) inspir’d with gift of Tongues, as They.

  Nature gave him, a Childe, what Men in vain 25

  Oft strive, by Art though further’d, to obtain.

  His body was an Orb, his sublime Soul

  Did move on Vertue’s and on Learning’s pole:

  Whose Reg’lar Motions better to our view,

  Then Archimedes Sphere, the Heavens did shew. 30

  Graces and Vertues, Languages and Arts,

  Beauty and Learning, fill’d up all the parts.

  Heav’ns Gifts, which do, like falling Stars, appear

  Scatter’d in Others; all, as in their Sphear,

  Were fix’d and conglobate in’s Soul, and thence 35

  Shone th’row his Body with sweet Influence;

  Letting their Glories so on each Limb fall,

  The whole Frame render’d was Celestial.

  Come, learned Ptolomy, and tryal make,

  If thou this Hero’s Altitude canst take; 40

  But that transcends thy skill; thrice happie all,

  Could we but prove thus Astronomical.

  Liv’d Tycho now, struck with this Ray, (which shone

  More bright i’ th’ Morn then others Beam at Noon)

  He’d take his Astrolabe, and seek out here 45

  What new Star ‘t was did gild our Hemisphere.

  Replenish’d then with such rare Gifts as these,

  Where was room left for such a Foul Disease?

  The Nations sin hath drawn that Veil which shrouds

  Our Day-spring in so sad benighting Clouds. 50

  Heaven would no longer trust its Pledge; but thus

  Recall’d it; rapt its Ganymede from us.

  Was there no milder way but the Small Pox,

  The very filth’ness of Pandora’s Box?

  So many Spots, like næves, our Venus soil? 55

  One Jewel set off with so many a Foil?

  Blisters with pride swell’d, which th’row’s flesh did sprout

  Like Rose-buds, stuck i’ th’ Lilly-skin about.

  Each little Pimple had a Tear in it,

  To wail the fault its rising did commit: 60

  Who, Rebel-like, with their own Lord at strife,

  Thus made an Insurrection ‘gainst his Life.

  Or were these Gems sent to adorn his Skin,

  The Cab’net of a richer Soul within?

  No Comet need foretel his Change drew on, 65

  Whose Corps might seem a Constellation.

  O had he di’d of old, how great a strife

  Had been, who from his Death should draw their Life?

  Who should by one rich draught become whate’er

  Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were: 70

  Learn’d, Vertuous, Pious, Great, and have by this

  An Universal Metempsuchosis.

  Must all these ag’d Sires in one Funeral

  Expire? All die in one so young, so small?

  Who, had he liv’d his life out, his great Fame 75

  Had swoln ‘bove any Greek or Romane name?

  But hasty Winter, with one blast, hath brought

  The hopes of Autumn, Summer, Spring, to nought.

  Thus fades the Oak i’ th’ sprig, i’ th’ blade the Corn;

  Thus, without Young, this Phœnix dies, new born. 80

  Must then old three-legg’d gray-beards, with their Gout,

  Catarrhs, Rheums, Aches, live three Ages out?

  Times Offal, onely fit for th’ Hospital,

  Or t’ hang an Antiquaries room withal;

  Must Drunkards, Lechers, spent with Sinning, live 85

  With such helps as Broths, Possits, Physick give?

  None live but such as should die? Shall we meet

  With none but Ghostly Fathers in the Street?

  Grief makes me rail; Sorrow will force its way;

  And Show’rs of Tears, Tempestuous Sighs best lay. 90

  The Tongue may fail; but over-flowing Eyes

  Will weep out lasting streams of Elegies.

  But thou, O Virgin-widow, left alone,

  Now thy Beloved, Heaven-ravisht Spouse is gone,

  (Whose skilful Sire in vain strove to apply 95

  Med’cines, when thy Balm was no remedy)

  With greater than Platonick love, O wed

  His Soul, tho’ not his Body, to thy Bed:

  Let that make thee a Mother; bring thou forth

  Th’ Ideas of his Vertue, Knowledge, Worth; 100

  Transcribe th’ Original in new Copies: give

  Hastings o’ th’ better part: so shall he live

  In’s Nobler Half; and the great Grandsire be

  Of an Heroick Divine Progenie:

  An Issue which t’ Eternity shall last, 105

  Yet but th’ Irradiations which he cast.

  Erect no Mausolæums: for his best

  Monument is his Spouses Marble brest.

  Heroick Stanza’s: A Poem upon the Death of His Late Highness, Oliver, Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland in Heroick Stanza’s

  Heroick Stanza’s, Consecrated to the Memory of His Highness,

  OLIVER, Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, &c.

  Written after the Celebrating of His Funeral.

  1

  AND now ’tis time; for their officious haste,

  Who would before have born him to the Sky,

  Like eager Romans e’er all Rites were past,

  Did let too soon the sacred Eagle fly.

  2

  Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame, 5

  Join’d with the loud Applause of publick Voice,

  Since Heaven, what Praise we offer to his Name,

  Hath render’d too Authentick by its Choice.

  3

  Though in his Praise no Arts can liberal be,

  Since they, whose Muses have the highest flown, 10

  Add not to his Immortal Memory;

  But do an Act of Friendship to their own.

  4

  Yet ’tis our Duty and our Interest too,

  Such Monuments as we can build, to raise;

  Lest all the World prevent what we shou’d do, 15

  And claim a Title in him by their Praise.

  5

  How shall I then begin, or where conclude,

  To draw a Fame so truly Circular?

  For in a Round, what Order can be shew’d,

  Where all the Parts so equal perfect are? 20

  6

  His Grandeur he derived from Heav’n alone,

  For he was great, e’er Fortune made him so;

  And Wars, like Mists that rise against the Sun,

  Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

  7

  No borrow’d Bays his Temples did adorn, 25

  But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring;

  Nor was his Vertue poison’d, soon as born,

  With the too early Thoughts of being King.

  8

  Fortune (that easie Mistress of the Young,

  But to her ancient Servants coy and hard) 30

  Him, at that Age, her Favourites ranked among,

  When she her best-lov’d Pompey did discard.

  9

  He, private, marked the Faults of others Sway,

  And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;

  Not like rash Monarchs, who their Youth betray 35

  By Acts their Age too late wou’d wish undone.

  10

  And yet Dominion was not his Design;

  We owe that Blessing not to him, but Heav’n,

  Which to fair Acts unsought Rewards did join,

  Rewards that less to him, than us, were giv’n. 40

  11

  Our former Chiefs, like Sticklers of the War,

  First sought t’ inflame the Parties, then to poise:

  The Quarrel lov’d, but did the
Cause abhor,

  And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

  12

  War, our Consumption, was their gainful Trade; 45

  We inward bled, whilst they prolong’d our Pain;

  He fought to end our Fighting, and assay’d

  To stench the Blood by breathing of the Vein.

  13

  Swift and resistless through the Land he pass’d,

  Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue; 50

  And made to Battels such Heroick Haste,

  As if on Wings of Victory he flew.

  14

  He fought, secure of Fortune, as of fame;

  Till by new Maps, the Island might be shown,

  Of Conquests, which he strew’d where-e’er he came, 55

  Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.

  15

  His palms, tho under Weights they did not stand,

  Still thriv’d; no Winter could his Laurels fade:

  Heaven in his Portraict shew’d a Work-man’s Hand

  And drew it perfect, yet without a Shade. 60

  16

  Peace was the Prize of all his Toil and Care,

  Which War had banish’d and did now restore:

  Bolognia’s walls thus mounted in the Air,

  To seat themselves more surely than before.

  17

  Her Safety, rescued Ireland, to him owes; 65

  And treacherous Scotland, to no Int’rest true,

  Yet bless’d that Fate which did his Arms dispose,

  Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.

  18

  Nor was he like those Stars which only shine,

  When to pale Mariners they Storms portend: 70

  He had his calmer Influence, and his Mien

  Did Love and Majesty together blend.

  19

  ’Tis true, his Count’nance did imprint an Awe,

  And naturally all Souls to his did bow;

  As Wands of Divination downward draw, 75

  And point to Beds where Sov’raign Gold doth grow.

  20

  When, past all Off’rings to Pheretrian Jove,

  He Mars depos’d and Arms to Gowns made yield,

  Successful Counsels did him soon approve

  As fit for close Intrigues as open Field. 80

  21

  To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf’d a Peace,