ficer as happy as your design. Yet, as Phidias, when he had made the statue of Minerva, could not forbear to engrave his own name, as author of the piece so give me leave to hope that, by subscribing mine to this poem, I may live by the goddess, and transmit my name to posterity by the memory of hers. 'T is no flattery to assure your lordship, that she is remembered, in the present age, by all who have had the honour of her conversation and acquaintance; and that I have never been in any company since the news of her death was first brought me, where have not extolled her virtues, and even spehe same things of her in prose, which I have done in verse.

I therefore think myself obliged to thank your lordship for the commission which you have given me how I have acquitted myself of it, must be left to the opinion of the world, in spite of any protestation which I can enter against the present age, as incompetent or corrupt judges. For my comfort, they are but Englishmen, and, as such, if they think ill of me to-day, they are inconstant enough to think well of me to-morrow. And after all, I have not much to thank my fortune that I was born among them. The good of both sexes are so few, in England, that they stand like exceptions against general rules: and though one of them has deserved a greater commendation than I could give her, they have taken care that I should not tire my pen with frequent exercise on the like subjects; that praises, like taxes, should be appropriated, and left almost as individual as the person. They say, my talent is satire: if it be so, 't is a fruitful age, and there is an extraordinary crop to gather. But a single hand is insufficient for such a harvest they have sown the dragon's teeth themselves, and 't is but just they should reap each other in lampoons. You, my lord, who have the character of honour, though 'tis not my happiness to know you, may stand aside, with the small remainders of the English nobility, truly such, and, unhurt yourselves, behold the mad combat. If I have pleased you, and some few others, I have obtained my end.

You see

I have disabled myself, like an elected Speaker
of the House: yet like him I have undertaken
the charge, and find the burden sufficiently re-
compensed by the honour. Be pleased to ac-
cept of these my unworthy labours, this paper
monument; and let her pious memory, which I
am sure is sacred to you, not only plead the
pardon of my many faults, but gain me your
protection, which is ambitiously sought by,
My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient Servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.

*ELEONORA :†

A PANEGYRICAL POEM, DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.

As when some great and gracious monarch dies, Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise Among the sad attendants; then the sound Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, [blast

[vain,

Through town and country, till the dreadful
Is blown to distant colonies at last;
Who, then, perhaps, were offering vows in
For his long life, and for his happy reign:
So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame
Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim,
Till public as the loss the news became.

The nation felt it in the extremest parts, With eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding hearts;

But most the poor, whom daily she supplied,
Beginning to be such, but when she died.
For, while she liv'd, they slept in peace by
Secure of bread, as of returning light; [night,
And with such firm dependence on the day,
That need grew pamper'd, and forgot to
So sure the dole, so ready at their call,
They stood prepar'd to see the manna fall.
Such multitudes she fed, she cloth'd, she

nurs'd,

pray:

That she herself might fear her wanting first.
Of her five talents, other five she made; [paid:
Heaven, that had largely given, was largely
And in few lives, in wondrous few, we find
A fortune better fitted to the mind.
Nor did her alms from ostentation fall,
Or proud desire of praise; the soul gave all:
Unbrib'd it gave; or, if a bribe appear,
No less than heaven; to heap huge treasures
there.

Want pass'd for merit at her open door :
Heaven saw, he safely might increase his poor,
And trust their sustenance with her so well,
As not to be at charge of miracle.
None could be needy, whom she saw, or knew;
All in the compass of her sphere she drew :
He, who could touch her garment, was as sure,
As the first Christians of the apostles' cure.

⚫ It appears, from the dedication to the Earl of Ab ingdon, that this poem was written at his Lordship's own desire. The lady whom the poem affects to praise was one of the co-heiresses of Sir Henry Lee, of Chicheley in Oxfordshire, and sister to the celebrated Mrs. Anne Wharton, a lady eminent for her poetical genius, whom Mr. Waller has cele brated in an elegant copy of verses. D.

The Earl is said to have given Dryden five hundred guineas for this poem. T.

The distant heard, by fame, her pious deeds,
And laid her up for their extremest needs;
A future cordial for a fainting mind;
For, what was ne'er refus'd, all hop'd to find,
Each in his turn: the rich might freely come,
As to a friend; but to the poor, 't was home.
As to some holy house the afflicted came,
The hunger-starv'd, naked and the lame;
Want and discases fled before her name.
For zeal like hers her servants were too slow;
She was the first, where need requir'd, to go;
Herself the foundress and attendant too.

Sure she had guests sometimes to entertain,
Guests in disguise, of her great Master's
train :
[know;
Her Lord himself might come, for ought we
Since in a servant's form he liv'd below:
Beneath her roof he might be pleas'd to stay;
Or some benighted angel, in his way, [appear
Might ease his wings, and, seeing heaven
In its best work of mercy, think it there,
Where all the deeds of charity and love
Were in as constant method, as above,
All carried on; all of a piece with theirs
As free her alms, as diligent her cares;
As loud her praises, and as warm her prayers.
Yet was she not profuse; but fear'd to waste,
And wisely manag'd, that the stock might

last;

That all might be supplied, and she not grieve, When crowds appear'd, she had not to relieve : Which to prevent, she still increas'd her store; Laid up, and spar'd, that she might give the

inore.

So Pharaoh, or some greater king than he,
Provided for the seventh necessity :
Taught from above his magazines to frame;
That famine was prevented ere it came.
Thus Heaven, though all-sufficent, shows a
In his economy, and bounds his gift: [thrift
Creating, for our day, one single light;
And his reflection too supplies the night.
Perhaps a thousand other worlds, that lie
Remote from us, and latent in the sky,
Are lighten'd by his beams, and kindly nurst
Of which our earthly dunghill is the worst.

Now, as all virtues keep the middle line, Yet somewhat more to one extreme incline, Such was her soul; abhorring avarice, Bounteous, but almost bounteous to a vice: Had she given more, it had profusion been, And turn'd the excess of goodness into sin.

These virtues rais'd her fabric to the sky; For that, which is next heaven, is charity. But, as high turrets, for their airy steep, Require foundations, in proportion deep; And lofty cedars as far upward shoot,

As to the nether heavens they drive the root:

So low did her secure foundation lie,
She was not humble, but Humility.
Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair,
Or wise, beyond what other woman are,
Or, which is better, knew, but never durst

compare.

For to be conscious of what all admire,
And not be vain, advances virtue higher.
But still she found, or rather thought she found,
Her own worth wanting, others' to abound:
Ascrib'd above their due to every one,
Unjust and scanty to herself alone.

Such her devotion was, as might give rules
Of speculation to disputing schools,
And teach us equally the scales to hold
Betwixt the two extremes of hot and cold,
That pious heat may moderately prevail,
And we be warm'd, but not be scorch'd with
zeal.

Business might shorten, not disturb her prayer,
Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.
An active life long orisons forbids; [deeds.
Yet still she pray'd, for still she pray'd by
Her every day was sabbath; only free
From hours of prayer, for hours of charity.
Such as the Jews from servile toil releas'd;
Where works of mercy were a part of rest;
Such as blest angels exercise above,
Varied with sacred hymns and acts of love:
Such sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,
E'en that perpetual one, which she employs,
(For such vicissitudes in heaven there are)
In praise alternate, and alternate prayer.
All this she practis'd here; that when she sprung
Amidst the choirs, at the first sight she sung:
Sung, and was sung herself in angels' lays;
For, praising her, they did her Maker praise.
All offices of heaven so well she knew,
Before she came, that nothing there was new:
And she was so familiarly receiv'd,
As one returning, not as one arriv'd.

Muse, down again precipitate thy flight:
For how can mortal eyes sustain immortal
But as the sun in water we can bear, [light?
Yet not the sun, but his reflection there,
So let us view her, here, in what she was,
And take her image in this watery glass:
Yet look not every lineament to see;
Some will be cast in shades, and some will be
So lamely drawn, you'll scarcely know 't is she.
For where such various virtues we recite,
"T is like the milky way, all over bright,
But sown so thick with stars, 't is undistin
guish'd light.

Her virtue, not her virtues, let us call; For one heroic comprehends them all : One, as a constellation is but one,

Though 't is a train of stars, that, rolling on,

[far

This is the imperfect draught; but short as As the true height and bigness of a star Exceeds the measures of the astronomer. She shines above, we know; but in what place, How near the throne, and heaven's imperial By our weak optics is but vainly guess'd; [face, Distance and altitude conceal the rest. [mind Though all these rare endowments of the Were in a narrow space of life confin'd, The figure was with full perfection crown'd; Though not so large an orb, as truly round.

As when in glory, through the public place, The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pass, And but one day for triumph was allow'd, The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd; And so the swift procession hurried on, That all, though not distinctly, might be shown: So in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd, She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind: And multitudes of virtues pass'd along; Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater multitudes that were to come.

Yet unemploy'd no minute slipp'd away; Moments were precious in so short a stay. The haste of heaven to have her was so great, That some were single acts, though each comBut every act stood ready to repeat. [plete; Her fellow-saints with busy care will look For her blest name in fate's eternal book; And, pleas'd to be outdone, with joy will see Numberless virtues, endless charity: But more will wonder at so short an age, To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page: And with a pious fear begin to doubt The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. But 't was her Saviour's time; and, could there A copy near the original, 't was she.

[be

As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple, and expire:
So was she soon exhal'd, and vanish'd hence;
A short sweet odour, of a vast expense.
She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she died;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide :
She pass'd serenely with a single breath;
This moment perfect health, the next was
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; [death:
So little penance needs, when souls are almost
pure.

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep:
So softly death succeeded life in her: [there.
She did but dream of heaven, and she was
No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still
voice ;

As an old friend is beckon❜d to a feast,
And treated like a long familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,
As one in hourly readiness to go:
E'en on that day, in all her trim prepar'd;
As early notice she from heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warning to remove;
Or counsell'd her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to

come.

He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Cloth'd all in white, the livery of the day: [act;
Scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word, or
Unless omissions were to pass for fact:
That hardly death a consequence could draw,
To make her liable to nature's law.
And, that she died, we only have to show
The mortal part of her she left below:
The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she went,
Look'd like translation through the firma-
ment,

Or like the fiery car on the third errand sent.
O happy soul! if thou canst view from high,
Where thou art all intelligence, all eye,
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st that any way be previous,
Survey the ruins of thy house, and see
Thy widow'd, and thy orphan family:
Look on thy tender pledges left behind;
And, if thou canst a vacant minute find
From heavenly joys, that interval afford
To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.
See how they grieve mistaken in their love,
And shed a beam of comfort from above;
Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with moderate sorrow may sustain
And mollify their losses in thy gain.
Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,
That should not all relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single heart.

Let this suffice: nor thou, great saint, refuseThis humble tribute of no vulgar muse: Who, not by cares, or wants, or age depress'd, Stems a wild deluge with a dauntless breast; And dares to sing thy praises in a clime Where vice triumphs, and virtue is a crime; Where e'en to draw the picture of thy mind Is satire on the most of human kind; Take it, while yet 't is praise; before my rage, Unsafely just, break loose on this bad age So bad, that thou thyself hadst no defence From vice, but barely by departing hence. Be what and where thou art: to wish thy place Were, in the best presumption more than grace. Thy relics (such thy works of mercy are,) Have, in this poem, been my holy care.

As earth thy body keeps, thy soul the sky,
So shall this verse preserve thy memory: [thee.
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of

ON THE DEATH OF AMYNTAS. A PASTORAL ELEGY.

"T WAS on a joyless and a gloomy morn, [thorn: Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the When Damon, who design'd to pass the day With hounds and horns, and chase the flying

prey,

Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
The welkin pitch'd 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 fill'd with gathering rain:
The promise of the day not only cross'd,
But e'en the spring, the spring itself is lost.
Amyntas-oh!-he could not speak the rest,
Nor needed, for presaging Damon guess'd.
Equal with heaven young Damon lov'd 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 plac'd,
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 chang'd her face, And brought on clouds and rain, the day's dis

grace;

Just such, Amyntas, was thy promis'd race. What charms adorn'd thy youth, where nature smil'd,

And more than man was given us in a child! His infancy was ripe : a soul sublime

In years so tender that prevented time: [away; Heaven gave him all at once; then snatch'd Ere mortals all his beauties could survey: [day. Just like the flower that buds and withers in a

MENALCAS.

The mother, lovely, though with grief opprest, Reclin'd his dying head upon her breast.

I

The mourntui family stood all around;
One groan was heard, one universal sound:
All were in floods of tears and endless sorrow
So dire a sadness sat on every look, fdrown'd.
E'en Death repented he had given the stroke.
He griev'd his fatal work had been ordain'd,
But promis'd length of life to those who yet re-
main'd.

The mother's and her eldest daughter's grace,
It seems, had brib'd him to prolong their space.
The father bore it with undaunted soul,
Like one who durst his destiny control :
Yet with becoming grief he bore his part,
Resign'd his son, but not resign'd 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 endu'd 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

[way.

About their godlike mate, and sing him on his
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 [quire;
Your brother's voice that comes to mend your
Sing you, while endless tears our eyes bestow;
For like Amyntas none is left below.

ON THE DEATH OF A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

And read whatever there was writ of thee.
He who could view the book of destiny,
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 turn'd the volume o'er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,