He springs to fight, exulting in his force;
His jointed armour rattles in the course.
Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows,
Or father Apennine, when, white with snows,
His head, divine, obscure in clouds he hides,
And shakes the sounding forest on his sides.

The nations, over-aw'd, surcease the fight: Immoveable their bodies, fix'd their sight. E'en Death stands still; nor from above they throw [low. Their darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams beIn silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. [sight, Th' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring Two mighty champions match'd in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state.

Now, in clos'd field, each other from afar They view; and, rushing on, begin the war. They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet.

The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet: Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high,

And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance; and both engage

With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage.

As, when two bulls for their fair female fight

In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height, With horns adverse they meet: the keeper flies: Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their [bear, eyes, And wait th' event-which victor they shall And who shall be the lord to rule the lusty year: With rage of love, the jealous rivals burn, And push for push, and wound for wound, re[blood: Their dewlaps gor'd, their sides are lav'd in Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro' the wood:

turn:

Such was the combat in the listed ground; So clash their swords, and so their shields resound.

Jove sets the beam: in either scale he lays The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side life and lucky chance ascends: Loaded with death, that other scale descends. Rais'd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a Full on the helm of his unguarded foe : [blow Shrill shouts and clamours ring on either side, As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor sword, And in the middle stroke, deserts his lord. Now 't is but death or flight: disarm'd he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies.

Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join'd,

Hurrying to war, disorder'd in his mind, Snatch'd the first weapon which his haste could

find.

'T was not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore. This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held:

But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield, The mortal-temper'd steel deceiv'd his hand : The shiver'd fragments shone amid the sand.

Surpris'd with fear, he fled along the field, And now forthright, and now in orbits wheel'd: For here the Trojan troops the list surround, And there the pass is clos'd with pools and marshy ground.

Eneas hastens, though with heavier paceHis wound, so newly knit, retards the chase, And oft his trembling krfees their aid refuseYet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.

Thus, when a fearful stag is clos'd around With crimson toils, or in a river found, High on the bank the deep-mouth'd hound appears,

Still op'ning, following still, where'er he steers: The persecuted creature, to and fro, [foe: Turns here and there, t' escape his Umbrian Steep is th' ascent, and, if he gains the land, The purple death is.pitch'd along the strand. His eager foe, determin'd to the chase, Stretch'd at his length, gains ground at ev'ry

His tardy troops, and, calling by their names,
Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats
Their realm with ruin, and their ancient seats
To lay in ashes, if they dare supply,
With arms or aid, his vanquish'd enemy;
Thus menacing, he still pursues his course,
With vigour, though diminish'd of his force.
Ten times already, round the listed place,
One chief had fled, and t' other giv'n the chase:
No trivial prize is play'd; for on the life
Or death of Turnus, now depends the strife.

Within the space, an olive-tree had stood,
A sacred shade, a venerable wood,
For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins' guardian
god.

Here hung the vests, and tablets were engrav'd,
Of sinking mariners, from shipwreck sav'd.
With heedless hands the Trojans fell'd the tree,
To make the ground enclos'd for combat free.
Deep in the root, whether by fate or chance,
Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance;
Then stoop'd, and tugg'd with force immense,
to free

Th' encumber'd spear from the tenacious tree
That whom his fainting limbs pursu❜d in vain,
His flying weapon might from far attain.

Confus'd with fear, bereft of human aid, Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus. pray'd:

"O Faunus! pity! and thou, mother Earth,
Where I thy foster-son receiv'd my birth,
Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand
Your plant has honour'd, which
your foes pro-
fan'd,
Propitious hear my pious pray'r!" He said,
Nor with successless vows invok'd their aid.
Th' incumbent hero wrench'd, and pull'd, and
strain'd;

But still the stubborn earth the steel detain'd.
Juturna took her time; and, while in vain
He strove, assum'd Metiscus' form again,
And, in that imitated shape, restor'd
To the despairing prince, his Daunian sword.
The queen of love-who, with disdain and
grief,

Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief-
T'assert her offspring with a greater deed,
From the tough root the ling'ring weapon
freed.

Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance:
One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance;
And both resolv'd alike, to try their fatal chance.
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke,
Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock:
"What new arrest, O queen of heav'n! is sent
To stop the Fates now lab'ring in th' event?
What further hopes are left thee to pursue?
Divine Eneas (and thou know'st it too)
Foredoom'd, to these celestial seats is due.
What more attempts for Turnus can be made,
That thus thou ling'rest in this lonely shade?
Is it becoming of the due respect
And awful honour of a god elect,
A wound unworthy of our state to feel,
Patient of human hands, and earthly steel?
Or seems it just the sister should restore
A second sword, when one was lost before,
And arm a conquer'd wretch against his con-
queror ?

For what, without thy knowledge and avow,
Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do?
At last, in defrence to my love, forbear
To lodge within thy soul this anxious care:

And, driv'n ashore, with hostile arms oppress.
Deform the royal house; and from the side
Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted pride :-
Now cease at my command." The Thund'ror
said:

And, with dejected eyes,this answer Juno made: "Because your dread decree too well I knew, From Turnus and from earth, unwilling I withdrew.

Else should you not behold me here alone,
Involv'd in empty clouds, my friends bemoan,
But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight,
Engag'd against my foes in mortal fight.
'Tis true, Juturna mingled in the strife
By my command, to save a brother's life,
At least to try; but (by the Stygian lake-
The most religious oath the gods can take)
With this restriction, not to bend the bow,
Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw.
And now, resign'd to your superior might,
And tir'd with fruitless toils, I loathe the

fight.

This let me beg (and this no fates withstand)
Both for myself and for your father's land,
That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace
(Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,)
The laws of either nation be the same;
But let the Latins still retain their name,
Speak the same language which they spoke
before,

Wear the same habits which their grandsires

wore.

Call them not Trojans: perish the renown
And name of Troy, with that detested town.
Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign,
And Rome's immortal majesty remain."

Then thus the founder of mankind replies (Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes :) "Can Saturn's issue, and heav'n's other heir, Such endless anger in her bosom bear? Be mistress, and your full desires obtain; But quench the choler you foment in vain. From ancient blood, th' Ausonian people sprung, Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue :

The Trojans to their customs shall be tied:
I will, myself, their common rites provide:
The natives shall command, the foreigners sub

side.

All shall be Latium; Troy without a name And her lost sons forget from whence they

came.

From blood so mix'd, a pious race shall flow,
Equal to gods, excelling all below.

No nation more respect to you shall pay,
Or greater off'rings on your altars lay."
Juno consents, well pleas'd that her desires
Had found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thunderer next
prepares

To force the wat'ry goddess from the wars.
Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night:
There their brown mother, brooding on her care,
Indu'd with windy wings, to flit in air,

With serpents girt alike, and crown'd with hiss ing hair.

In heav'n the Diræ call'd, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death, and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister-plague of these from heav'n he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more

slow

Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when traversing the skies,
And drench'd in pois'nous juice, the sure de-
struction flies.

With such a sudden, and unseen a flight,

Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night!
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty
Jove,

The worthy recompense of ravish'd love!
Did he for this exempt my life from fate!
O hard conditions of immortal state!
Though born to death, not privileg'd to die,
But forc'd to bear impos'd eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brother's ghost below!
The joys are vanish'd: nothing now remains
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb?"
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrapp'd her head,
Then plung'd into her stream, with deep de-
spair;

And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear :
"What further subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harbour'd in his mind?
"Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight:
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight.
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war:
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky;
Or hid within the hollow earth to lie!"
The champion shook his head, and made this
short reply:

"No threats of thine my manly mind can move⚫

Night.

Soon as the field inclos'd she had in view,
And from afar her destin'd quarry knew—.
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruin'd piles and hallow'd urns,
And beats about the tombs with mighty wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchres she sings.
Thus lessen'd in her form, with frightful cries
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes.
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
Chok'd was his voice; his hair with horror
stood.

Juturna from afar beheld her fly,

And knew th' ill omen, by her screaming cry,
And stridor of her wing. Amaz'd with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her
flowing hair.

"Ah me!" she cries, " in this unequal strife,
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?

He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast
Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around,
An antique stone he saw, the common bound
Of neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground-
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
Th' enormous weight from earth could hardly
raise.

He heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high,
Ran stagg'ring on against his enemy.
But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seem to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry :
The nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny;

And brandishing aloft the deadly lance:

Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu❜ring foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow. Astonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear, Aim'd at his shield, he sces th' impending spear.

The hero measur'd first, with narrow view, The destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw, With its full swing, the fatal weapon flew. Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls

Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong The lance drove on, and bore the death along: Naught could his seven-fold shield the prince avail,

Nor aught beneath his arms, the coat of mail: It pierc'd through all, and with a grisly wound Transfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky: Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

Now, low on earth, the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upwards, and with arms dis play'd,

And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd.
"I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son)-
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave.
And for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life:
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife :
Against a yielded man, 'tis mean,ignoble strife."

In deep suspense, the Trojan seem'd to stand, And, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand. He roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter'd on his side, The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries, (Flames while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes,) [tend, "Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace preGlad as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go! 'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow." He rais'd his arm aloft, and at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distain'd his arms around And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

THIS Essay contains the first detailed view of our author's opinions concerning the Drama. In many things, particularly in the main point of preference given to rhyme, he afterwards saw cause to retract some of the principles here laid down. We have endeavoured elsewhere to trace the progress and alteration of Dryden's sentiments upon these subjects.* But the reader's attention may be here called to the elegant form into which he has thrown his essay, and which has been so often in vain followed by clumsy imitators. The scene of the dialogue, and the striking incident by which it is introduced, have the happiest effect in arresting the attention; and infinite address is displayed in conducting the subject, from the distant noise of a bloody sea-fight, into the academic prolusions of dramatic criticism.

The speakers in the dialogue are four; three of whom are persons "whom their wit and quality have made known to all the town." The fourth, of whose properties the author speaks more modestly, is NEANDER, under which feigned appellation Dryden himself is figured. In corroboration of this, Mr. Malone produces two instances, in which Dryden is called Neander by the famous Corinna, or Eliza Thomas. Moreover, the curious reader must be informed, that there is an anagram in the name of the second personage, LISIDEIUS, which points him out to be Sir Charles Sedley, or Sidley, for his name was spelled both ways.‡ CRITES, the advocate for blank verse, is Sir Robert Howard, our author's friend and brother-in-law; who, in the preface to his plays pub

In an elegy on his death, and in a poem ad:iress. ed to Captain Gibbon.-Malone, Vol. i. p. 63. For aught I know, an imperfect anagram may be intended; for the letters in the name of Dryden, with a very little aid, will make out the word Neander.

For Dryden's connexion with this gay writer, see the dedication of the "Assignation," "Lisideius is sidletus, a little changed.

VOL. II.-15

lished in 1665, had censured rhyming tragedies as unnatural. Prior has assured us, that EUGENIUS means the witty Earl of Dorset, then Lord Buckhurst.* A very critical observer may remark an inaccuracy in introducing his lordship as listening to the sound of a seafight, in which he was himself actually engaged. But Dryden did not mean to identify his speakers, and those shadowed out under them, otherwise than in their capacity of critics and authors.

Dryden has, with infinite address, avoided, or overcome, the obstacles which commonly attend an argumentative discussion, in form of a dialogue. The author of such disputations, in general, so obviously favours one of the combatants, that we as soon expect Hector to slay Achilles, or Turnus to defeat Eneas, as nourish the least hope of the unfriended champion

"The most eminent masters in their several ways appealed to his determination. Waller thought it an honour to consult him in the softness and harmony of his verse, and Dr Sprat in the delicacy and turn of his prose. Dryden determines by him, under the character of Eugenius, as to the laws of dramatic poetry." This occurs in Prior's dedication of his poems to Lionel, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, in which he gives his father's character at length, 8vo. edit. 1709.

+ The evening before the battle, he is said to have composed the lively song beginning,

To all you ladies now at land.

Prior gives the following account of the matter: "In the first Dutch war, he went a volunteer with the Duke of York; his behaviour during that campaign was such as distinguished the Sackvill, descended from that Hildebrand of the name, who was one of the greatest captains that came into England with the Conqueror. But his making a song the night before the engagement, and it is one of the prettiest that ever was made, carries with it so sedate a presence of mind, and such an unusual gallantry, that it deserves as much to be recorded as Alexander's jesting with his soldiers before he passed the Granicus or William the First of Orange giving order over night for a battle, and desiring to be called in the morning, lest he should happen to sleep too long."