Classic Poem

Disconsolate Britannic mourning State;
Sighs told her Loss, and Tears Neander's Fate;
Each recollected Line renew'd her Care,
And ev'ry Thought enhanc'd her vast Despair.
Thus gen'rous Grief long struggled in her Breast,
But Want of Language Passion's Voice supprest.
At last Spring-tides of Sorrow Silence broke,
And, in an Agony, these Words she spoke.

Ye Pow'rs above who rule this earthly Stage;
Ye sacred Numen's of the present Age!
What has Britannia done to meet your Hate?
Why is she punish'd in Neander's Fate?
Could none but He have made your Anger known?
Could nothing less than He your Wrath atone?
He whom Apollo's sacred self inspir'd,
Envy'd by many, but by all admir'd:
Who Juvenal and Persuis overcame,
Who taught them English yet preserv'd their Flame:
Who gave us Virgil in our native Tongue,
And Absalom's Misfortunes so divinely sung.

Dryden, on whom each Science did attend,
The greatest Genius, and the truest Friend:
With Worlds of Words, he did our Speech refine,
And manly Strength with modern Softness join:
Each Language made subservient to his End,
And those Acqnests as bravely did defend.

Not fam'd Timotheus could, with greater Ease,
Excite our Anger, or our Wrath appease.
True Measure with his Verse our Passions kept,
And as he pleas'd we either smil'd or wept.
How noble was his Style, sublime his Thought!
How nicely just was ev'ry Piece he wrote!
But with his Last what Numbers can compare?
Not dying Swans more sweet and regular?

And till Neander grac'd the British Sphear,
How abject did our Muses Sons appear?
They coasted by the Shoar, a lazy Way;
But all the Inlands undiscover'd lay.
Wit's Empire Dryden boldly did explore,
And like the Heroe could have wept for more:
But gen'rously he check'd his noble Rage,
And for his Albion's sake his Passion did asswage.
Thro' gloomy Shades unlighted by the Day,
And Heights untrod, he forc'd an open Way;
For ev'ry Province Beacons did provide,
And Marks succeding Travellers to guide:
Then gave us Charts of what was long conceal'd;
And to th' admiring World th' lncognita reveal'd.

Oh! had ye lengthen'd out his fleeting Hours,
Had he but liv'd t'ave made great Homer ours;
Redeem'd his injur'd Sire, and set him free
From Chapman, Hobb's, and mangling Ogilby:
How had the Bard exulted in his Mind!
And with what Pleasure his great Soul resign'd!
But ah Britannia! thou complain'st too late,
There's no reversing the Decrees of Fate:
In vain we sigh! in vain alas we mourn!
Th' Illustrious Poet never must return.

Weep, weep Britannia, never cease thy Tears,
But still encrease thy Sorrows with thy Years:
'Twas mighty Dryden gave thy Island Fame,
And made that Honour lasting with his Name.
This said——she pensively reclining lay,
And, spent with Grief, wore out the tedious Day:
When sudden Beams of Light around her broke,
And in a Vision thus Apollo spoke.

Much lov'd Britannia, from this Posture rise,
Lament no more, nor cloud thy beauteous Eyes:
See where thy Dryden in our Presence stands,
And with what Pow'r he now the Nine commands;
To gain his Plaudit how they all aspire:
And he the Genius is of Albion's tuneful Choire.
Then up ingrateful Isle, revere his Name!
Let all thy Sons my Dryden's Worth proclaim,
And with harmonious Numbers celebrate his Fame.