Mourn Britain’s loss, though Britain be ingrate; Nor let the sacred Mantuan’s labours be A _ne plus ultra_ to thy fame and thee. Thy Abingdon, if once thy glorious theme, Shall vie with his Marcellus for esteem; Tears in his eyes, and sorrow in his heart, Shall speak the reader’s grief, and writer’s art; And, though this barren age does not produce A great Augustus, to reward thy muse; Though in this isle no good Octavia reigns, And gives thee Virgil’s premium for his strains: Yet, Dryden, for a while forsake thy ease, And quit thy pleasures, that thou more may’st please. Apollo calls, and every muse attends, With every grace, who every beauty lends. Sweet is thy voice, as was thy subject’s mind, And, like his soul, thy numbers unconfined; Thy language easy, and thy flowing song, Soft as a vale, but like a mountain strong. Such verse as thine, and such alone, should dare To charge the muses with their present care. Thine, and the cause of wit, with speed maintain, Lest some rude hand the sacred work profane, And the dull, mercenary, rhyming crew, Rob the deceased and thee, of what’s your due. Such fears as these, (if duty cannot move, And make thy labours equal to thy love,) Should hasten forth thy verse, and make it show What thou, mankind, and every muse does owe. As Abingdon’s high worth exalted shines, And gives and takes a lustre from thy lines; As Eleonora’s pious deeds revive In him who shared her praises when alive: So the stern Greek, whom nothing could persuade To quit the rash engagements which he made, With sullen looks, and helmet laid aside, He soothed his anger, and indulged his pride; Careless of fate, neglectful of the call Of chiefs entreating, till Patroclus’ fall. Roused by his death, his martial soul could bend, And lose his whole resentments in his friend; As to the dusky field he winged his course, With eyes impatient, and redoubled force, And weeped him dead, in thousands of the slain, Whom living, Greece had beg’d his sword in vain. O Dryden! quick the sacred pencil take, And rise in virtue’s cause for virtue’s sake; Of heaven’s the song, and heaven-born is thy muse, Fitting to follow bliss, which mine will lose: Bold are thy thoughts, and soaring is thy flight; Thy fancy tempting, thy expressions bright; Moving thy grief, and powerful is thy praise, Or to command our tears, or joys to raise. So shall his worth, from age to age conveyed, Shew what the hero did, and poet paid; And future times shall practice what they see Performed so well by him, and praised by thee, While I confess the weakness of my lays, And give my wonder where thou giv’st thy praise: As I from every muse but thine retire, And him in thee, and thee in him, admire. No. VIII.