JOHN DRYDEN

JOHN DRYDEN was born on the 9th of August, 1631, in Northamptonshire, England; and his death took place May 1st, 1700. His family and connections were Puritan and antimonarchical. The poet was the eldest of a family of fourteen. The father's means being limited, he procured his son admission to Westminster School, as a King's scholar under the famous Dr. Busby. While in this school, Dryden wrote some Elegiac verses upon the death of the young Lord Hastings, in 1649. These verses had the distinction of being printed in a bound volume, among others elegies by persons of nobility and worth. His education was completed at Trinity college, Cambridge, from which institution he received his degree of B. A.

Dryden's next poem of importance was entitled Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Cromwell. In this poem he appears to good advantage. His genius, not yet restrained by policy, points out clearly the great possibility of the poet. On the return of Charles II., Dryden, with equal splendor of diction, congratulates the Restoration. The Restoration brought with it a renewal of the love of the theater, and Dryden turned his attention to writing for the stage. Thus he appears under various guises. The genius which manifests itself so favorably in Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Cromwell,

for policy was led to congratulate the Restoration, and for
money and a desire to please the popular taste, was turned
to writing for the stage.

Some of his plays met with success, but many of them
are weak and without character. Dryden's satires were
overwhelming, and so completely crushed his enemies, that
he was considered, by good authority, the "undisputed king
and lawgiver of English literature, during his life."

He held the position of poet-laureate of England for a short time.

While we wish that Dryden might have avoided his many vulgar descents, yet we cannot help admiring the fiery energy of his satire, and the freedom and magnificence of his verse.

*

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

HOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies

Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, now plucked from paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,

Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighboring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fixed and regular,

Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace;

Or, called to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thine own voice did practice here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there:
While yet a young probationer

And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood;
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was formed at first with myriads more,

It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore.

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind.

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

*

O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age-
Nay, added fat pollutions of our own---

T'increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t'excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all;
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;

Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,

To raise the nations under ground;

When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,

The judging God shall close the book of fate;
And there the last assizes keep

For those who wake, and those who sleep;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,
Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go,
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

The Vagabonds.

E are two travelers, Roger and I.

W

Roger's my dog come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye!

Over the table,-look out for the lamp!-
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (Poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for the strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,

Are n't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot then, -we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty too-see him nod his head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,—

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.