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Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
On whose fresh lap the swart-star' sparely looks;
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe 2 primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears

To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away—where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides

Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

4

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold -
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

1 the dog-star

2 early

3 laureled

4 a Cornish giant

And yet anon repairs his drooping head

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high.

1

Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves; 1
Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive 2 nuptial song
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric 3 lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue :
To-morrow, to fresh woods and pastures new!

4

Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. From the "Areopagitica."

1 Note the special aptness of this fine allusion. 2 inexpressible

8 pastoral

4 Meaning?

DRYDEN

1631-1700

THE father of John Dryden was a Puritan of Northamptonshire and a man of considerable means and good family. The poet was born in the year 1631. Of his earlier years we know little beyond the facts that he was a pupil at Westminster School and that he took his degree at Cambridge. His first appearance as a candidate for poetical honors was in the year 1658, when, upon the death of Cromwell, he published his verses laudatory of the

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Puritan leader. Upon the Restoration of Charles II. the poet was sufficiently impartial in the distribution of his favors to put forth a congratulatory ode upon that "happy event." Throughout the decade following, Dryden maintained himself chiefly by writing for the dramatic stage, producing during this time more than a score of plays. In 1668 he was made poet-laureate, which place he held till the Revolution of 1688, when the honor was transferred to Shadwell. In the reign of James, Dryden had embraced the Catholic faith, and could therefore hardly complain when the laureateship was withdrawn from him. This change, however, gave him the opportunity to display his mastery of satire, as well as to gratify his resentment, in the poem "Mac Flecknoe," in which he mercilessly ridicules his

successor's poetic pretensions. While he was laureate the income of that post sufficed to render Dryden's circumstances somewhat easy; but he appears throughout his life to have been more or less needy, often using his pen for gain rather than for fame, as, indeed, he frankly avowed was the fact in all his writing for the stage. He died, of a complication of disorders, on the 1st of May, 1700.

His dramatic works, though forming a considerable part of Dryden's literary remains, have contributed scarcely anything to his fame as a poet. This rests chiefly upon his translations from the Latin poets, notably the "Æneid" of Virgil, upon his satires, odes, and shorter poems, and upon his contributions to literary criticism. He was the first of English writers to lay down a system of generai rules by which the merits of a composition might be determined, as well as the first to define the limits within which the license of poetical translation should properly confine itself. He seems also to have been the first to combine poetry with philosophy, - a method still further developed in the writings of Pope. Most of Dryden's satires were prompted by political enmities or rivalries. His best-known production in this field is entitled "Absalom and Achitophel," in which the principal victims of his invective were the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Shaftesbury. The most important of his prose writings is his "Essay on Dramatic Poetry." His so-called "Fables," which were merely tales in verse, and his second ode for St. Cecilia's day, both written shortly before his death, so far from showing any decay of the poet's powers, are justly regarded as superior to much of his earlier work.

The bent of Dryden's mind was argumentative and controversial. He was not a poet of the emotions, nor did Nature in any of her aspects appeal to him as an interpreter. The whole body of his verse contains little to indicate sensibility to things simple and natural, and nothing that is pathetic. It has accordingly been a favorite criticism upon his translations that they lose in the rendering much of the tender charm of the originals.

SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY1

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

1 This poem was written in 1687 for the occasion of the annual celebration of St. Cecilia's day by a London musical society. Ten years later, and for the same object, Dryden wrote his longer ode, entitled, "Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music." Saint Cecilia is the patron saint of music, and to her has been ascribed the invention of the organ.

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
In order to their stations leap,

And music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason1 closing full in man.

What passion can not music raise and quell!
When Jubal struck the chorded shell

His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion can not music raise and quell!

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

1 the entire compass of tones
2 See Genesis iv. 21.

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