To The Duchess Of York, On Her Return From Scotland In The Year 1682.

    When factious rage to cruel exile drove
    The queen of beauty,^[1] and the court of love,
    The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts,
    And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:
    Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd
    Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd,
    Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
    The great supporter of his awful throne.
    Love could no longer after beauty stay,
    But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
    As if the sun and he had lost their way.
    But now the illustrious nymph, return'd again,
    Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
    The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,
    Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form:
    Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis, pass'd;
    But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
    Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
    And Envy did but look on her, and died.
    Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate,
    Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.
    Three gloomy years against this day were set,
    But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:
    Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
    The famine past, the plenty still to come.
    For her the weeping heavens become serene;
    For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:
    For her the nightingales are taught to sing,
    And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
    The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays;
    And Love, restored his ancient realm surveys,
    Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays;
    His waste dominions peoples once again,
    And from her presence dates his second reign.
    But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
    Dispensing what she never will admit:
    Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
    The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
    Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
    No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State:
    No more shall Faction civil discords move,
    Or only discords of too tender love:
    Discord, like that of music's various parts;
    Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
    Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
    Who best should love the Duke, and serve the King.

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

Epilogue To The Second Part Of The Conquest Of Granada.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Veni Creator Spiritus, Paraphrased.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To Mr Lee, On His "Alexander."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To Mr Southerne, On His Comedy Called "The Wives' Excuse."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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To Her Royal Highness The Duchess,[1]

On The Memorable Victory Gained By The Duke Over The Hollanders, June 3, 1665. And On Her Journey Afterwards Into The North.

    Madam,
    When, for our sakes, your hero you resign'd
    To swelling seas, and every faithless wind;
    When you released his courage, and set free
    A valour fatal to the enemy;
    You lodged your country's cares within your breast
    (The mansion where soft love should only rest):
    And, ere our foes abroad were overcome,
    The noblest conquest you had gain'd at home.
    Ah, what concerns did both your souls divide!
    Your honour gave us what your love denied:
    And 'twas for him much easier to subdue
    Those foes he fought with, than to part from you.
    That glorious day, which two such navies saw,
    As each...

John Dryden

To Her Grace The Duchess Of Ormond,[1]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.


    MADAM,

    The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
    Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song:
    Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
    And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
    He match'd their beauties, where they most excel;
    Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

        Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold
    What power the charms of beauty had of old;
    Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
    Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own.

        If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
    And poets can divine each other's thought,
    The fairest nymph before his eyes he set;
    And then the fairest was Plantagenet;
 ...

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 The Lady Castlemain,[1] Upon Her Encouraging His First Play.

As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain:
So my much-envied Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;
While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chose:
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.
Let others triumph still, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world's applause;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise;
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile t...

John Dryden

Elegy VI. Anno Aetates Undevigesimo.[1]

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen^[2] inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.        
    The Cyprian^[3] heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
    It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arraye...

William Cowper

Songs In King Arthur.

Where a battle is supposed to be given behind the scenes, with drums, trumpets, and military shouts and excursions; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the victory, sing this song of triumph.


I.

    Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound;
    Come, if you dare, the foes rebound:
    We come, we come, we come, we come,
    Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum.
        Now they charge on amain,
        Now they rally again:
    The gods from above the mad labour behold,
    And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.
    The fainting Saxons quit their ground,
    Their trumpets languish in the sound:
    They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly;
    Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.
        Now the victory's wo...

John Dryden