An Ode on the Death of Mr. Dryden. I. As when Plebeans at a Monarch's death, (Which seems Prophan'd by Sighs from vulgar Breath;) With sawcy Grief pity the helpless Fate Of what they fear'd, almost ador'd of late. So I the meanest that did e'er aspire, To own herself of the Muses Empire; Who scarcely can my Tribute pay, To acknowledge their Imperial sway. With arrogant, yet conscious Grief, presume, To shed a Tear on their Vice-gerents awful Tomb: Ah! who'd have thought that seeming deathless Man, With every Art and Grace indow'd; Should have a Life, but of the usual Span, And shrink into a common Shroud. But his unequall'd worth can never dy, Nothing can e'er his matchless Laurels blast, Tho' Albion's self should be destroy'd and wast; And in forgotten Ruins lie. The ecchoing Trump of Fame his Glories will re-reherse, To all the wondering Universe, Till it Joyn sound with the Tremendious last. II. Sure Poets are not made of common Earth, Or he at least may boast a nobler Birth; Each Atom with soft Numbers was inspir'd, And flowing Fancy with one lasting Rapture fir'd: Altho' the mighty Secret's not disclos'd, He surely was like Thebes with artful Tunes compos'd. The Voices of the sweet melodious Nine, In Consort joyn'd Apollo's forming Lyre, Did thousand purest particles Inspire; With tuneful Measures Harmony Divine. At the sacred commanding Sound, With Animation passing vulgar Souls, The knowing willing Atoms came, None the creative Strains controuls; But by energy of Ayrs Divine compound, The almost omniscient Frame. And for a Soul which scarce was wanting here, In all the pre-existing Magazine, Not one was seen; Worthy in thy alloted Glories to appear. No great Apollo's self, with his own Rays, (For nothing less could the bright Form improve,) Infus'd celestial Sapience from above; To qualify thee for immortal Bays. III. Apollo once before a sacred Structure blest, Where all the Inquisitive World did come, For an ambiguous Doom; And splendid Pomp amaz'd the curious Guest. Yet with less Glory did at Delphos shine, When floors of Marble, roofs of Gold, Did his oraculous God-head hold; Then in thy living Shrine, There fetter'd with a sacerdotal Yoke, Uncheckt in thee, the God has always spoke. In thee no less Magnificent appears, Nor with less Splender did his Power exert, Then when above a Soveraign sway he bears; In Learning Poetry, and every Godlike Art. But oh! the Deity is silenc'd now, No more celestial Cadence from thy Tongue will flow, And all the lesser Fanes with Grief expire, All gasping ly, With fainting Groans deplore, Great Dryden is no more; And with declining Fire Sing their own Requiem in thy Obsequie. Farewel to Inspiration now, All sacred extacies of Wit, The softer Excellence, Of melting Words and rapturing Sence, Ye will no more with Divine Sweetness flow; But Poetry submit To the bold Enthusiastick Rage Of a deserted and malicious Age. IV. Only the Pythagorean Faith we doubt, Else if thy great Soul should transmigrated be, It might be parcell'd out And stock each Age with Laureats till Eternity. Ah! Where is thy harmonious Spirit now? Teaching softer Numbers to the Sphears, Or makes some Star with greater Lustre glow, Or roamest in the extended Space thy long Eternity of Years. No, toth' sacred softer Shades thou'rt gone, The Souls of Poets needs must thither fly; (I'm sure they Lovers live how e're they die.) But thou so many Laurels here hast won, As plants a new Elizium of thy own. Triumphant sit beneath th' immortal Shade, Of ever blooming Wreaths which less than those will fade, That are below for softest Lovers made. Therefore the Mantuan Swain need not retreat, But keep his antient Regal Seat; Which else at thy Approach he would resign, For well he knows Wit's sacred Throne is thine: See he with Thanks salutes thy skilful Hand, Which so successfully has taught; His long fam'd Works the Language of our Land, With Art in every Line, and Grace in every Thought. None their intrinsick Value can deny, The well plac'd Pride of antient Rome, Polish'd by thee is now our Boast become; Sparkling with all the Glories of true Poetry; Receives from all a just and happier Doom. Orpheus and all the tuneful Poets there, With Joys new dated celebrate thy Fame, In an eternal soft celestial Air; For all the Honours thou hast done the so long slighted Name. V. And we whom thou hast left behind, Are all employ'd about thee too; Altho thy Worth too great a Theme we find, At least our Gratitude in Grief we show. Our best Encomiums but prophane thy Name, Unless successful Congreves artful Line; That only Rival of so great a Fame, Can Justice do to thine. My well meant Trophy blushing I must rear, Unkind Melpomene affords no Aid, Tho' I so often beg'd and pray'd, My softer Voice she would not hear. Amongst the mighty Men she's busie now, Tis they I find best charm immortal Females too; Tho' she'll not teach how I shall Numbers keep, My Admiration in Heroick's dress, Or in a softer Ode my Griefs express, Tis my own Fault being Woman, if I fail to weep. Since this great Man insatiate Fate obey'd, How is Wit's Empire lessen'd and decay'd? It scarce a Province now appears, Come then let's joyn our Tears; Cease not till an Ocean flow, Twine round the Muses Plat, till it an Island grow, There let's possess her constant Joys, Spite, Poverty and Noise. Tho' bounded safe with a Castalian Sea, They ne'er must hope their Isles the Fortunate will be.