But were dispensed, more thriftily, between Jove’s wife, his daughter, and the Cyprian queen. The nymphs recorded in his artful lays, Produce the grateful homage of their praise; Assisted in their vows by powers divine, Offer their sacred incense at his shrine. The spheres exalt their music, to commend The poet’s master and the muse’s friend; In concert form seraphic notes to sing, Of numbers, and of harmony the king. In this triumphant scene to act her part, Nature’s attended by her hand-maid, Art: Resounding Echo, with her mimic voice, Concurs to make the universe rejoice. Let ev’ry tongue and pen the poet sing, Who mounts Parnassus top with lofty wing; Whose splendid muse has crowns of laurel won, That brave the shining beauties of the sun. His lines (those sacred reliques of the mind) Not by the laws of fate or war confined, In spite of flames will everlasting prove, Devouring rust of time, or angry Jove. No. XI. EXTRACT FROM POETÆ BRITANNICI. A POEM, SATIRICAL AND PANEGYRICAL. _1700. 9. January._ L--gh aim’d to rise above great Dr---n’s height, But lofty Dryden kept a steady flight. Like Dædalus, he times with prudent care His well-waxed wings, and waves in middle air. Crowned with the sacred snow of reverend years, Dryden above the ignobler crowd appears, Raises his laurelled head, and, as he goes, O’er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows. The native spark, which first advanced his name, By industry he kindled to a flame. Then to a different coast his judgment flew, He left the old world behind, and found a new. On the strong columns of his lasting wit, Instructive Dryden built, and peopled it. In every page delight and profit shines; Immortal sense flows in his mighty lines. His images so strong and lively be, I hear not words alone, but substance see, The proper phrase of our exalted tongue To such perfection from his numbers sprung; His tropes continued, and his figures fine, All of a piece throughout, and all divine. Adapted words and sweet expressions move Our various passions, pity, rage, and love. I weep to hear fond Antony complain In Shakespeare’s fancy, but in Virgil’s strain. Though for the comic, others we prefer, Himself the judge; nor does his judgment err. But comedy, ’tis thought, can never claim The sounding title of a poem’s name. For raillery, and what creates a smile, Betrays no lofty genius, nor a style. That heavenly heat refuses to be seen In a town character, and comic mien. If we would do him right, we must produce The Sophoclean buskin; when his muse With her loud accents filled the listning ear, And peals applauding shook the theatre. They fondly seek, great name, to blast thy praise, Who think that foreign banks produced thy bays.