My soul shook with the sacred harmony, which soon alarmed my heart; I fancied I was falling from on high, and wakened with a start: “Waked,” said I, “surely no; I did not sleep; Can they be dreams which such impressions make? My soul does still the blest ideas keep; And still, methinks, I see them, though awake! The other thrones too, which, though vacant, shone With greater glory than the sun, Come fresh into my mind; Which once will lose their lustre by their bards outdone, When filled with those for whom they are designed. Upon their fronts I saw the glittering names, All written in celestial flames. For Dorset what a palace did I see! For Montague! And what for Normandy! What glories wait for Wycherly! For Congreve, Southerne, Tate, Garth, Addison? For Stephney, Prior, and for Dennis too? What thrones are void, what joys prepared and due? The pleasant dear companion Cheek, Whom all the great although at midnight seek, This glorious wreath must wear, and endless joys pursue. And for Motteux, my Gallic friend, The like triumphant laurels wait; Though heaven, I hope, will send it very late, Ere they or he to their blest seats ascend. ’Tis in their verse, next his, that he must live, Next his their lines eternal fame can give; Then all the happiness on earth I know Is, that such godlike men as they are with us still below.” No. X. TO THE MEMORY OF MR DRYDEN, A POEM. _Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit, Ut ad id unum natum diceres quodcunque ageret._ _1700, 17th June._