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Rome raised not art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive:
Till Goths, and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchless monuments deface.
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began to enervate poetry.
Thus, in a stupid military state,

The pen and pencil find an equal fate.
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.

Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep,
A heavy sabbath did supinely keep;

At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.

Thence rose the Roman, and the Lombard line;
One coloured best, and one did best design.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting looked like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,
Postures unforced, and lively colours join,
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest,
Where light, to shades descending, plays, not strives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.

Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought;
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;

With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.
His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight;

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.

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,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth,
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth;
But oh, the painter Muse, though last in place,
Has seized the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crowned.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine,
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.

So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we engraft our skill,
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confined in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place;
The painter widely stretches his command;
Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

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,
When first you were conducted to this isle;
Our genius brought you here, to enlarge our fame;
For your good stars are everywhere the same.
Thy matchless hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee the examples of their wondrous art.
Those masters, then but seen, not understood,
With generous emulation fired thy blood;
For what in nature's dawn the child admired,
The youth endeavoured, and the man acquired.

If yet thou hast not reached their high degree,
'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee.
Thy genius, bounded by the times, like mine,
Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design
A more exalted work, and more divine.
For what a song, or senseless opera
Is to the living labour of a play;

Or what a play to Virgil's work would be,
Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live:.
Kings cannot reign, unless their subjects give;
And they, who pay the taxes, bear the rule:
Thus thou, sometimes, art forced to draw a fool;
But so his follies in thy posture sink,

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
Our unities of action, time, and place;

A whole composed of parts, and those the best,
With every various character exprest;
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view;
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew;

While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age shall add the rest:
For time shall with his ready pencil stand,
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand,
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the tint,
Add every grace, which time alone can grant;
To future ages shall your fame convey,

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.

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