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
.