Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive, The pen and pencil find an equal fate. Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep, At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise, Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line; Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought; With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write; Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost: When most they rail, know then, they envy most. In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd, And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound; Though nature there her true resemblance bears, So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame, But poets are confined in narrower space, To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world, would strive. Sure some propitious planet then did smile, Great Rome and Venice early did impart If yet thou hast not reached their high degree, Or what a play to Virgil's work would be, But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:. The senseless idiot seems at last to think. Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so vain, To wish their vile resemblance may remain, And stand recorded at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest! Else should we see your noble pencil trace A whole composed of parts, and those the best, While all the figures in one action join, More cannot be by mortal art exprest; And give more beauties than he takes away. TO MY HONOURED KINSMAN, JOHN DRIDEN, OF CHESTERTON, IN THE COUNTY OF HUNTINGDON, ESQ. [JOHN DRIDEN, who retained the ancient orthography, was the second son of Sir John Driden, and cousin of the poet; a country gentleman of independent fortune, a magistrate, and member of parliament, who followed the hounds, kept a hospitable table, and lived a bachelor. So easy and prosperous a destiny naturally enough attracted the admiration of the hardworking author, shut up in the smoke and din of the town, in his house in Gerard-street, Soho. Dryden had ample materials to build his panegyric upon, in the happy circumstances and unblemished reputation of his cousin, at whose house, in the latter part of his life, he frequently received a hearty welcome, which in these brilliant lines he gracefully repays. Malone says that there was a tradition in the family that the poet was presented by his kinsman with a gift of £500 in return for these verses; but he doubts the accuracy of the anecdote, as being inconsistent with the distressed circumstances in which Dryden continued to be involved from that time up to his death, which took place soon afterwards. Sir Walter Scott thinks it probable that this sum of £500 was confounded with a legacy of the same amount which Mr. Driden of Chesterton bequeathed to Charles Dryden, the poet's son, who, unfortunately, did not live to profit by it. It is certain, however, that the poem was acknowledged by a handsome gift, as Dryden, in a letter to Mrs. Steward, dated 11th April, 1700, thus refers to the circumstance, alluding to the recent publication of the volume containing this piece: 'I always thought my verses to my cousin Driden were the best of the whole, and, to my comfort, the town thinks them so; and he, which pleases me most, is of the same judgment, as appears by a noble present he has sent me, which surprised me, because I did not in the least expect it.' Dryden bestowed extraordinary pains upon this poem, which is the more remarkable, as he rarely revised his writings. He tells us that the portrait of a Parliament-man is a memorial of his own principles. This epistle, written in 1699, was published for the first time in the volume with the Fables.] OW blessed is he, who leads a country life, HOW Unvexed with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who, studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoyed his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own; And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known. Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come, From your award to wait their final doom; And, foes before, return in friendship home. Without their cost, you terminate the cause, And save the expense of long litigious laws; Where suits are traversed, and so little won, That he who conquers, is but last undone. Such are not your decrees; but so designed, The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind; Like your own soul serene, a pattern of your Promoting concord, and composing strife, Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife; Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night, Long penitence succeeds a short delight: mind. |