On The Monument Of The Marquis Of Winchester.[1]

He who in impious times undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he sought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, Heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.

John Dryden

John Dryden was an influential English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England’s first Poet Laureate in 1668. His work dominated the literary life of Restoration England and he is seen as a major figure in the literary history of the period. Dryden's notable works include the satirical poem 'Absalom and Achitophel' and the mock-heroic 'Mac Flecknoe.'

John Dryden

Prologue To The University Of Oxford.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of A Very Young Gentleman.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue[1] To His Royal Highness,

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Heroic Stanzas On The Death Of Oliver Cromwell, Written After His Funeral.

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
    Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
    Did let too soon the sacred eagle^{^[1]} fly.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
    Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
    Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
    Since they, whose muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
    But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
    Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Lest all the world prevent what we should do,
    And claim a title in him by their praise.
...

John Dryden

To My Honoured Kinsman, John Dryden,[1] Of Chesterton, In The County Of Huntingdon, Esq.

    How bless'd is he who leads a country life,
    Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
    Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
    Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
    All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
    And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.

        Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
    From your award to wait their final doom;
    And, foes before, return in friendship home.
    Without their cost, you terminate the cause;
    And save the expense of long litigious laws:
    Where suits are traversed; and so little won,
    That he who conquers, is but last undone:
    Such are not your decrees; but so design'd,
    The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;
    Like your own soul, sere...

John Dryden

To My Honoured Friend Dr Charleton

On His Learned And Useful Works; But More Particularly His Treatise Of Stonehenge,^[1] By Him Restored To The True Founder.


    The longest tyranny that ever sway'd,
    Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd
    Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,
    And made his torch their universal light.
    So truth, while only one supplied the state,
    Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
    Still it was bought, like empiric wares, or charms,
    Hard words seal'd up with Artistotle's arms.
    Columbus was the first that shook his throne,
    And found a temperate in a torrid zone,
    The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze,
    The fruitful vales set round with shady trees:
    And guiltless men, who danced away their time,
    Fresh...

John Dryden

On The Monument Of A Fair Maiden Lady[1], Who Died At Bath, And Is There Interred.

    Below this marble monument is laid
    All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
    Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd;
    The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
    And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
    One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
    Such were the features of her heavenly face,
    Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace:
    So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
    Had been an emanation of the soul:
    Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd
    And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd.
    Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light:
    Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight.
    Each thought was visible that roll'd within:
    As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
    A...

John Dryden

To His Sacred Majesty.

A Panegyric On His Coronation.

    In that wild deluge where the world was drown'd,
    When life and sin one common tomb had found,
    The first small prospect of a rising hill
    With various notes of joy the ark did fill:
    Yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd,
    It left behind it false and slippery ground;
    And the more solemn pomp was still deferr'd,
    Till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd.
    Thus, Royal Sir, to see you landed here,
    Was cause enough of triumph for a year:
    Nor would your care those glorious joys repeat,
    Till they at once might be secure and great:
    Till your kind beams, by their continued stay,
    Had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps away,
    Such vapours, while your powerful influe...

John Dryden

To His Grace The Archbishop Of Dublin; A Poem

    Serus in coelum redeas, diuque
    Laetus intersis populo. - HOR., Carm. I, ii, 45.


Great, good, and just, was once applied
To one who for his country died;[l]
To one who lives in its defence,
We speak it in a happier sense.
O may the fates thy life prolong!
Our country then can dread no wrong:
In thy great care we place our trust,
Because thou'rt great, and good, and just:
Thy breast unshaken can oppose
Our private and our public foes:
The latent wiles, and tricks of state,
Your wisdom can with ease defeat.
When power in all its pomp appears,
It falls before thy rev'rend years,
And willingly resigns its place
To something nobler in thy face.
When once the fierce pursuing Gaul
Had drawn his sword for Marius' fall,
The...

Jonathan Swift