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ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A49438	Luctus britannici, or, The tears of the British muses for the death of John Dryden, Esq., late poet laureat to Their Majesties, K. Charles and K. James the Second written by the most eminent hands in the two famous universities, and by several others.	Playford, Henry, b. 1657.; Roper, Abel, 1665-1726.	1700 (1700)	Wing L3451; ESTC R21041	34,391	86

his Loss and sing our selves to Death But whither whither wouldst Thou sly My feeble Muse The Quarry's much too high To some great Genius leave his praise Which may survive to After-days Let Congreve then in Deathless Song His Father's Loss deplore Congreve must his Fame prolong In such soft rural Strains as once he Sung before Whilst generous Montague both Great and Just In some rich Urn preserves his Sacred Dust And or'e his Grave a Mausolaeum rears To be the Envy'd Wonder of succeeding Years Iohn Froud An ELEGY on the much Lamented Death of John Dryden Esq the famous English Poet. Tu Decus omne tuis Postquam te fata tulerunt Ipsa Pales Agros Atque ipse relignit Apollo Virg. THE careful Business of the day was done And gloomy Darkness reign'd where Phaebus shone When with the Sun a Swain retir'd to rest T' allay the Troubles of his anxious Breast Scarce on the Couch his weary Limbs were spread And on the Down reclin'd his pensive head But the sad startling Tydings reach'd his Ear Too doleful to be false too true to hear Long with himself the matchless Man he mourn'd And slumbring to th' unwelcome Task return'd He Curs'd the day that rowl'd the Message on And the shrill Tongue that made the Message known Then murmur'd at the changing Scenes below Whilst from his Eyes salt Streams disclos'd his Woe Sleep ●led his Eyes and anxious Thoughts possess'd The restless Region of his throbbing breast A●●last his Passion half becalm'd and dead In broken Words and mournful Sighs he said Happy the glorious Days when thou didst sit Unrivall'd in the sacred Throne of Wit When of Parnassian Sons a num'rous Throng Stood listning at their charming Phabus's Song ●●ke Iove sublime and great like Venus soft and young How sweetly would fair Albion's Cliffs rebound And loth to lose the Voice dilate the sound From Vale to Vale and all the Forrest round No rugged Notes from his blest Lips cou'd fall Phaebus inspir'd as Phaebus chose them all Lofty his Verse as the blest Seats above Yet calm as are the Rea●ms of blissful of Love Serene and smooth as Ev'ning Rivers rowl As Nectar sparkling in th' immorta● Bowl And Heav'nly magick Work 's in ev'ry Line And through the whole surprizing Fancies shine Oh were He deathless as his VVorks Divine As Iove his Forme so He could change his Muse And now the Heroe now the Drama Chuse His Heroe lofty as the Eagle flies And like the Eagle comes from upper Skies See See! where most his happy Genious shines Behold the Beauteous Verse and Deathl●ss Lines How Sweetly does he Tune Great Maro's Lyre And fills but never Satisfies desire So Heavenly Joys with Raptures please the Mind And always leave a present Thirst behind The Silvan Songs how pleasant and how Sweet Where Maro's Thoughts and DRYDEN's Numbers meet His Thoughts how bold his Words how dazling brigh When Arms and War provoke a Nobler slight How Manly he the Grecian Muse bestrides And through the Air on strongest Pinions rides Oh that He 'd liv'd the finish'd VVork to view But now 't is left harmonious Garth for you So Canaan's happy Plains were seen from far But ne'er receiv'd the Sacred Tra●eller So younger Ioshua past the Adverse Sand And brought lost Israel to the blissful Land His Drama's just and great and as it ought Without or Want or over-plus of Thought Not like the Infant Muse in frothy Fit That lavishes away its sterling Wit And when both Flame and Heat the Subject wants Has drain'd the Fountain's head in needless Rants That balks the longing Reader 's strong desire And this O●tends him with excess of Fire But 'twixt the two his Vessel safe appears And in the Golden Medium wisely steers If once his stabbing Pen the Poet drew He spar'd the Wits but all the Blockheads slew So the far-shooting God is God of Sounds And with a Nodd the wandring Rabble wounds 'T was he that made old crabbed Iuv'nal plain And brought dark Persius to the Light again So Phaebus banishes the gloomy Night From our black Coasts on Wings of Morning Light But who can all th' Immortal Beauties tell That from his Heav'nly Muse divinely fell ' Twou'd ask a Tongue Divine as was his own To make his Worth his Value truly known Such was the Man the Man because retir'd His Death by All deplor'd as was his Life desir'd Unhappy Land thy radiant Glory 's gone As Ev'ning Rays sink with the Setting-Sun The Ghastly Truth is heard and flies and spreads And as it flies infectious Sorrow sheds All Albion's Sons with Sorrow delug'd round Full of the News lye prostrate on the Ground And clad with Weeds and melancholy vails Each mourning Swain the God-like Bard bewails His Mind was grown too pure and Heav'nly bright And must the Carcass leave and take to Heav'n its flight More he had spoke but Phaebus rais'd his head From off his watry Couch and thus he said Long have I mourn'd my Son's unhappy Fate But now am Summon'd on my Carr to wait Cease then to Weep till I have gain'd the Sky Least Grief shou'd to the World my Beams deny In Garth or Congreve shall his Genius shine Then cease thy Tears nor at harsh Fate repine He said the Promise cheer'd his drooping Breast And Light the present Deity confest R Key On the Death of John Dryden Esq IS DRYDEN Dead In whining Canto's Mourn And Tears profusely shed upon his Urn Ye servile Scriblers who were late his Scorn Whilst I rejoyce so great a Man was Born Not in the folly of an empty Mind Rail at his Stars or call the Fates unkind Cause he devested of Mortallity Has past Deaths narrow Po●ts t' Eternity To grieve at 's Death were impiously to Mourn At 's Life and murmur that he e're was Born Since Death is Life's Condition and to Dye As Nat'ral is as to be Born Then why With Clam'rous Plants should I perplex the Skies Disturb the Air with Groans the Winds with Sighs Or fouly fall upon the Destinies The Gods that gave Him might have kept him still His Being was appendent on their Will 'T was in their Power alone to make him be Or to have kept him in Nonentity And not t' have been's the same as not to be One Power at Once did Life and Death Decree And that he is not where 's the Injury Forth ' Blessings of his Life I thank the Gods Nor envy's Bliss in their Divine abodes 'T is true he whilst on Earth most sweetly Sung Soft melting Musick dwelt upon his Tongue And the Indulgent Gods they lent him long His Life our Blessing was his Death no wrong Tho' gone yet he has left in part behind The blest Ideas of his God-like Mind A Portion of his Soul to Human kind Dryden alone can spake alone can shew What we to his Informing Genius owe. Read but his Learned Works and there you 'l find The Native Lustre of his

which no Writer ever yet cou'd share You saw your Self your Empire fixt in Peace And grown so large as not t' admit increase Where e're their Verse prevail'd You liv'd to know Your own receiv'd alike Triumphant too Diffusing Wit and giving Wings to Fame There were the Roman Eagles never came To grieve were vain We cannot call Thee lost While Britain stands Thou shalt be Britain's boast Tho' thy Immortal Mind 's retir'd we find A no less Everlasting Part behind Your Works and You by a stupendous Doom Like Ianus may to Deity presume Thou there see'st all that 's Past and They 'l see all to Come ●Twas then we sigh'd when Otway from us torn Made all the Loves and all the Graces mourn Ev'n yet the Stage her Darling's Loss complain Charming his Face and charming were his Strains 'T was then we sigh'd when fatal Frenzy siez'd Thy Faithful Lee who never writ but pleas'd Tho' cooler Pens his Youthful Ardor blame Without his Fire they 'l never reach his Fame T was then we sigh'd when Oldham fell a prey Cropt by a sudden Blite before his Day His Loss we all did with Impatience bear And every Muse bemoan'd Him with a Tear So they again wou'd Sigh shou'd Congreve be An Early Instance of Mortalitie And the Expecting World so seldom kind Lose all the Wonders that are yet behind In the unbounded Treasures of the Mind So wou'd they Mourn shou'd Southerne leave the Stage So just to Comick Wit and Tragick Rage Southerne who singing Oro●noko's Flame Has made his own a like Immortal Name But Thee 't were almost Impious to deplore We had Thee all and Fate cou'd give no more With Peace Applause with Years and Lawrels Crown'd And Life nor Fame cou'd make Thee more Renown'd Robert Gould On the Death of John Dryden Esq DRYDEN and Dead what Eccho did I hear That Groan'd such dismal Accents in my Ear Eccho 't is false for Dryden cannot dye He 'll Live Immortal as his Poetry Dryden the Glory of the English Stage Sprightly in Youth and Vigorous in Age. So Charmingly the matchless Dryden Writ Engrossing the Monopoly of Wit So choice each Word so well compact each Line Each feature Graceful and each thought Divine Show'd him the Fav'rite of the sacred Nine In Dryden's ever-living Works are shown The Antient Poets all Comprized in one His Predecessours by far diff'rent ways Courted applause and sought the Verdant Bays One reach'd the Clouds in lofty Mantuan Verse Another keen Iambick would rehearse This Bard apply'd himself to Tragedy That had a taking Vein in Comedy Till Phaebus knowing all Poetick Wit To be defective and imperfect yet Sent down his Darling Dryden to relieve The fainting Art and make it ever live Who by the God inspir'd divinely Writ And made the never-fading Art Compleat He found the Ore and did refine it too And having done what never Man could do Assum'd a Swan-like from and o're the Clouds he flew What if He did forsake the Mourning Land And Mount the Skies by a Divine Command There to compleat the Sacred Choir above And Sing his Glorious Songs of Joy and Love Yet Dryden's shall stand secur'd of praise And reach Fame's Empyrem in his Lays City's may perish Rocks may be defac'd But his Renown shall never be debas'd His Deathless Verses shall Immortal be Immortal as the Glorious God of Poetry I. Blyth One of the Senior Scholars in Merchant Taylors School Aged 15. Vpon the Death of John Dryden Esq A PINDARIQUE I. THE Glorious Age had scarce begun In happy rounds of Peace to run When Thou our Joy and Light Forsook the VVorld and left us wrapt in Night VVith Sorrow we receiv'd The dismal News but scarce believ'd VVe thought so great a Man as Thee Not subject to Mortality Such wondrous Verses did thy Heav'n-born Muse Such warbling Airs such Harmony diffuse That when thy charming Lines we read It is preposterous to think Thee dead But yet as all things end that er'e begun Thy Muse is Silent now thy Life is done And Thou ar't o're the fatal River gone To Death's inhospitable Shore VVhere all thy Rivals went before And Thou and Harmony are ours no more II. VVas Nature weary of her Load And could no longer stay Or did some kind some Guardian God Translate thy Soul from her Abode And waft Thee to the Realms of Light and Day VVhich way soever 't was VVe must sustain the Loss A Loss s' irreparably great Not all the coming Ages can repair Though we should storm Iove's awful Seat VVith the Artillery of Prayer The kneeling VVorld might beg in vain To hear the Musick of thy Voice again So much thy Skill the Angels prize They 'le ever keep Thee in the Skies To make the Anthems which they Sing In praise of Nature's God and Heaven's Eternal King III. Could I like Thee in lofty Numbers sing Of Thee the darling Son of Fame Of Thee I 'd make the Hills and Vallies ring And wanton Eccho sport with Dryden's Name Dryden Dryden all around Should the vocal Groves resound And Winds be husht and still to catch the carming Sound Whilst neighbouring Streams that steal along In winding Currents o're the flow'ry Plains Should stop their Waves and list'ning to my Song Rise up in silver Heaps to hear my happy Strains But hearing me bewail thy Death Tho' in soft harmonious breath They'd sadly sink away And flowing backwards to their Urn Through some dark subterraneous Cell Where Silence Night and Chaos dwell Remote from hated Light for ever stray And there thy Loss in hollow Murmurs mourn IV. Oh Father of our English Tongue To Thee our Praises all belong To Thee we should a Temple build A lasting Monument of Fame That future Ages may just Homage yield And pay a grateful Tribute to thy Name Thou hast so much our Words refin'd So happily increas'd the Store That in thy Verse such Charms we find As were unknown to all our Bards before Thy artful Numbers and inchanting Airs As Orpheus when he touch'd the trembling Strings Delude our Griefs and cheat us of our Cares When thy belov'd Thalia sings Of dying Lovers or victorious Kings Or when with Tragick rage Fond Anthony adorns the Stage Where for his Love he gives the World away So much he does our pity raise We pay Thee Tears instead of Praise And feel at once unusual Grief and Joy Ah! then how well may we at Death repine That still'd so soft so sweet a Voice as thine How great a Cause have we To mourn the Loss of POETRY and Thee V. But how should we express our Grief How our deep Cares relate How paint our Sorrows to the Life While we lament his Fate Folded Arms and weeping Eyes Flowing Tears and rising Sighs Are Actions all too low To furnish out so sad a Scene of Wo● Like Philomel we should Complain And mourn great Dryden's Death in Dryden's Strain Or like the dying Swan with tuneful Breath Bewail