The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Vol II With Life, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes

Farewell, too little, and too lately known,

Whom I began to think, and call my own:

For sure our souls were near allied, and thine

Cast in the same poetic mould with mine!

One common note on either lyre did strike,

And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.

To the same goal did both our studies drive;

The last set out, the soonest did arrive.

Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,

Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10

O early ripe! to thy abundant store

What could advancing age have added more?

It might (what nature never gives the young)

Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.

But satire needs not those, and wit will shine

Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

A noble error, and but seldom made,

When poets are by too much force betray'd.

Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime,

Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time 20

But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme.

Once more, hail! and farewell, farewell, thou young,

But, ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue!

Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;

But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

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FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 33: 'Mr Oldham:' John Oldham, the satirist, died of the small-pox in his 30th year, 1683.]

* * * * *

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,

Made in the last promotion of the blest;

Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,

In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:

Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,

Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,

Or, in procession fix'd and regular,

Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;

Or, call'd to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:

Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,

Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,

In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,

When thy first fruits of Poesy were given;

To make thyself a welcome inmate there:

While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;

Thy father was transfused into thy blood:

So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,

An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more,

It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.