| |
| AS 1 there is Musick uninform’d by Art | |
| In those wild Notes, which with a merry heart | |
| The Birds in unfrequented shades expresse, | |
| Who better taught at home, yet please us lesse: | |
| So in your Verse, a native sweetnesse dwells, | 5 |
| Which shames Composure, and its Art excells. | |
| Singing no more can your soft numbers grace, | |
| Then 2 Paint adds charms unto a beauteous Face. | |
| Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep, | |
| Their even calmnesse does suppose them deep, | 10 |
| Such is your Muse: no Metaphor swell’d high | |
| With dangerous boldnesse lifts her to the sky; | |
| Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again, | |
| Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain. | |
| So firm a strength and yet withall so sweet, | 15 |
| Did never but in Sampson’s Riddle meet. | |
| ’Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear, | |
| And yet no signe of toil, no sweat appear. | |
| Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign | |
| Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; | 20 |
| And we, dull souls, admire but cannot see | |
| What hidden springs within the Engine be | |
| Or ’tis some happiness that still pursues | |
| Each act and motion of your gracefull Muse. | |
| Or is it Fortune’s work, that in your head | 25 |
| The curious Net 3 that is for fancies spread, | |
| Lets 4 through its Meshes every meaner thought | |
| While rich Idea’s there are only caught? 5 | |
| Sure that’s not all; this is a piece too fair | |
| To be the child of Chance, and not of Care. | 30 |
| No Atoms casually together hurl’d | |
| Could e’re produce so beautifull a world. | |
| Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit, | |
| As would destroy the providence of wit. | |
| ’Tis your strong Genius then which does not feel | 35 |
| Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel. | |
| To carry weight and run so lightly too | |
| Is what alone your Pegasus can do. | |
| Great Hercules himself could ne’re do more, | |
| Than not to feel those Heav’ns and Gods 6 he bore. | 40 |
| Your easier odes, which for delight were penn’d, | |
| Yet our instruction make their second end; | |
| We’re both enrich’d and pleas’d, like them that woo | |
| At once a Beauty and a Fortune too. | |
| Of Morall Knowledge Poesie was Queen, | 45 |
| And still she might, had wanton wits not been; | |
| Who like ill Guardians liv’d themselves at large, | |
| And, not content with that, debauch’d their charge. | |
| Like some brave Captain, your successful Pen | |
| Restores the Exil’d to her Crown again; | 50 |
| And gives us hope that having seen the days | |
| When nothing flourish’d but Fanatique Bays, | |
| All will at length in this opinion rest, | |
| “A sober Prince’s Government is best. | |
| This is not all; your Art the way has found | 55 |
| To make improvement 7 of the richest ground, | |
| That soil which those immortal Lawrells bore, | |
| That once the sacred Maro’s temples wore. | |
| Elisa’s griefs, are so expresst by you, | |
| They are too eloquent to have been true. | 60 |
| Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey’d | |
| What Dido rather then 8 what Jove had said. | |
| If funerall Rites can give a Ghost repose, | |
| Your Muse so justly had discharged those, | |
| Elisa’s shade may now its wandring cease, | 65 |
| And claim a title to the fields of peace. | |
| But if Æneas be oblig’d, no lesse | |
| Your kindnesse great Achilles doth confesse, | |
| Who, dress’d by Statius in too bold a look, | |
| Did ill become those Virgin’s 9 Robes he took. | 70 |
| To understand how much we owe to you, | |
| We must your Numbers with your Author’s view: | |
| Then we shall see his work was lamely rough, | |
| Each figure stiff, as if design’d in buffe: | |
| His colours laid so thick on every place, | 75 |
| As onely shew’d the paint, but hid the face. | |
| But as in Perspective we Beauties see, | |
| Which in the glasse, not in the Picture, be; | |
| So here our sight obligeingly mistakes | |
| That wealth, which his your bounty onely makes. | 80 |
| Thus vulgar dishes are by Cooks disguis’d, | |
| More for their dressing than their substance priz’d. | |
| Your curious Notes 10 so search into that Age, | |
| When all was fable but the sacred Page, | |
| That, since in that dark night we needs must stray, | 85 |
| We are at least misled in pleasant way. | |
| But what we most admire, your Verse no lesse | |
| The Prophet than the Poet doth confess. | |
| Ere our weak eyes discern’d th’ doubtfull streak | |
| Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break. | 90 |
| So skilfull Sea-men ken th’ Land from far, | |
| Which shows like mists to the dul Passenger. | |
| To Charls your Muse first pays her dutious love, | |
| As still the Antients did begin from Jove | |
| With Monck you end, whose name preserv’d shall be, | 95 |
| As Rome recorded Rufus 11 memory, | |
| Who thought it greater honour to obey | |
| His Countrey’s interest, than the world to sway. | |
| But to write worthy things of worthy men, | |
| Is the peculiar talent of your Pen: | 100 |
| Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I | |
| Will venture in your right to prophesy. | |
| “This Work, by merit first of Fame secure, | |
| “Is likewise happy in its Geniture: | |
| “For, since ’tis born when Charls ascends th’ Throne, | 105 |
“It shares at once his Fortune and its own.
JOHN DRIDEN. | |
