[20] _Ibid_.
[21] "In the Bodleian Catalogue another work is attributed to our author, on very slight grounds: "An Exposition of the Doctrine of the Catholic Church," translated from Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, and published at London in 1685. The only authority for attributing this translation to Dryden, should seem to have been the following note in Bishop Barlow"s handwriting, at the bottom of the t.i.tle-page of the copy belonging to the Bodleian Library:
""By Mr. Dryden, then only a poet, now a papist too: may be, he was a papist before, but not known till of late."
"This book had belonged to Bishop Barlow, who died in 1691."--MALONE.
[22] "Before the beginning of every canonical hour, he always said the hymn of "_Veni, Creator Spiritus_;" and it was observed that while he said it, his countenance was enlightened, as if the Holy Ghost, whom he invoked, was visibly descended on him."--Vol. xvi.
[23][I have received a valuable communication as to Dryden"s Hymns, which will be noticed in its proper place.--ED.]
[24] This line alone speaks Dryden in every syllable.
[25] I subjoin the original hymn, which is supposed to have been composed by Lactantius.
_Ut queant, laxis resonare fibris, Mira gestorum, famuli, tuorum, Solve polluti labii meatum, Sancte Joannes_!
_Nunciens, celso veniens Olympo, Te, Patri, magnum fore nasciturum, Nomen, et vitae seriem gerendae, Ordine promit_.
_Ille promissi dubius superni, Perdidit promptae modulos loquelae; Sed reformasti gemitus peremptae Organa vocis_.
_Ventris abstruso recubans cubili, Senseras regem, thalamo manentem; Hinc Parens nati meritis uterque Abdita pandit_.
[26] [Some matter concerning Dryden and Etherege will find, perhaps, most appropriate place in commenting on this Poem, vol. xi.--ED.]
[27] Vol. x.
[28]
"Here duly swarm prodigious wights, And strange variety of sights, As ladies lewd, and foppish knights, Priests, poets, pimps, and parasites; Which now we"ll spare, and only mention The hungry bard that writes for pension; Old Squib (who"s sometimes here, I"m told), That oft has with his prince made bold, Called the late king a saunt"ring cully, To magnify the Gallic bully, Who lately put a senseless banter Upon the world, with Hind and Panther, Making the beasts and birds o"the wood Doubt, what he ne"er understood, Deep secrets in philosophy, And mysteries in theology, All sung in wretched poetry; Which rumbling piece is as much farce all, As his true mirror, the "Rehearsal;"
For which he has been soundly banged, But ha"n"t his just reward till hanged."
_Poem on the Camp at Hounslow_.
[29] Extracts from "The Address of John Dryden, Laureat, to his Highness the Prince of Orange:"
"In all the hosannas our whole world"s applause, Ill.u.s.trious champion of our church and laws!
Accept, great Na.s.sau! from unworthy me, Amongst the adoring crowd, a bonded knee; Nor scruple, sir, to hear my echoing lyre, Strung, tuned, and joined to the universal choir; From my suspected mouth thy glories told, A known out-lyer from the English fold."
After renewing the old reproach about Cromwell:
"If thus all this I could unblushing write, Fear not that pen that shall thy praise indite, When high-born blood my adoration draws, Exalted glory and unblemished cause; A theme so all divine my muse shall wing, What is"t for thee, great prince, I will not sing?
No bounds shall stop my Pegasean flight, I"ll spot my Hind, and make my Panther white.
But if, great prince, my feeble strength shall fail, Thy theme I"ll to my successors entail; My heirs the unfinished subject shall complete: I have a son, and he, by all that"s great, That very son (and trust my oaths, I swore As much to my great master James before) Shall, by his sire"s example, Rome renounce, For he, young stripling, has turned but once; That Oxford nursling, that sweet hopeful boy, His father"s and that once Ignatian joy, Designed for a new Bellarmin Goliah, Under the great Gamaliel, Obadiah!
This youth, great sir, shall your fame"s trumpets blow, And soar when my dull wings shall flag below.
Why should I blush to turn, when my defence And plea"s so plain?--for if Omnipotence Be the highest attribute that heaven can boast, That"s the truest church that heaven resembles most.
The tables then are turned: and "tis confest, The strongest and the mightiest is the best: In all my changes I"m on the right side, And by the same great reason justified.
When the bold Crescent late attacked the Cross, Resolved the empire of the world to engross, Had tottering Vienna"s walls but failed, And Turkey over Christendom prevailed, Long ere this I had crossed the Dardanello, And reigned the mighty Mahomet"s hail fellow; Quitting my duller hopes, the poor renown Of Eton College, or a Dublin gown, And commenced graduate in the grand divan, Had reigned a more immortal Mussulman."
The lines which follow are taken from "The Deliverance," a poem to the Prince of Orange, by a Person of Quality. 9th February, 1688-9.
"Alas! how cruel is a poet"s fate!
Or who indeed would be a laureate, That must or fall or turn with every change of state?
Poor bard! if thy hot zeal for loyal Wem[29a]
Forbids thy tacking, sing his requiem; Sing something, prithee, to ensure thy thumb; Nothing but conscience strikes a poet dumb.
Conscience, that dull chimera of the schools, A learned imposition upon fools, Thou, Dryden, art not silenced with such stuff, Egad thy conscience has been large enough.
But here are loyal subjects still, and foes, Many to mourn, for many to oppose.
Shall thy great master, thy almighty Jove, Whom thou to place above the G.o.ds bust strove, Shall be from David"s throne so early fall, And laureate Dryden not one tear let fall; Nor sings the bard his exit in one poor pastoral?
Thee fear confines, thee, Dryden, fear confines, And grief, not shame, stops thy recanting lines.
Our Damon is as generous as great, And well could pardon tears that love create, Shouldst thou, in justice to thy vexed soul, Not sing to him but thy lost lord condole.
But silence is a d.a.m.ning error, John; I"d or my master or myself bemoan."
[29a] _Lord Jeffries, Baron of Wem._
[30] In the dedication of "Bury-Fair" to his patron the Earl of Dorset, he claims the merit due to his political constancy and sufferings: "I never could recant in the worst of times, when my ruin was designed, and my life was sought, and for near ten years I was kept from the exercise of that profession which had afforded me a competent subsistence; and surely I shall not now do it, when there is a liberty of speaking common sense, which, though not long since forbidden, is now grown current."
[31] See Cibber or Shiels"s Life of Shadwell.
[32]
"These wretched poet.i.tos, who got praise For writing most confounded loyal plays, With viler, coa.r.s.er jests than at Bear-garden, And silly Grub-street songs worse than Tom-farthing.
If any n.o.ble patriot did excel, His own and country"s rights defending well, These yelping curs were straight loo"d on to bark, On the deserving man to set a mark.
These abject, fawning parasites and knaves, Since they were such, would have all others slaves.
"Twas precious loyalty that was thought fit To atone for want of honesty and wit.
No wonder common-sense was all cried down, And noise and nonsense swaggered through the town.
Our author, then opprest, would have you know it, Was silenced for a nonconformist poet; In those hard times he bore the utmost test, And now he swears he"s loyal as the best.
Now, sirs, since common-sense has won the day, Be kind to this, as to his last year"s play.
His friends stood firmly to him when distressed; He hopes the number is not now decreased.
He found esteem from those he valued most; Proud of his friends, he of his foes could boast."
_Prologue to Bury-Fair._
[33] Vol. xi.
[34] _Ibid_.
[35] Introduct. to "Spanish Friar," vol. vi.
[36] Vol. vii.
[37] "A play well-dressed, you know, is half in half, as a great writer says. The Morocco dresses when new, formerly for "Sebastian," they say, enlivened the play as much as the "pudding and dumpling" song did Merlin."--_The Female Wits_, a comedy by Mountfort.
[38]
"The labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone, Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone: Such is a satire, when you take away That rage, in which his n.o.ble vigour lay.
What gain you by not suffering him to tease ye?
He neither can offend you now, nor please ye.
The honey-bag and venom lay so near, That both together you resolved to tear; And lost your pleasure to secure your fear.
How can he show his manhood, if you bind him To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him?
This is plain levelling of wit; in which The poor has all the advantage, not the rich.
The blockhead stands excused, for wanting sense; And wits turn blockheads in their own defence."