Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

All shall be Latium; Troy without a name And her lost sons forget from whence they

came.

From blood so mix'd, a pious race shall flow,
Equal to gods, excelling all below.

No nation more respect to you shall pay,
Or greater off'rings on your altars lay."
Juno consents, well pleas'd that her desires
Had found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thunderer next
prepares

To force the wat'ry goddess from the wars.
Deep in the dismal regions void of light,
Three daughters, at a birth, were born to Night:
There their brown mother, brooding on her care,
Indu'd with windy wings, to flit in air,

With serpents girt alike, and crown'd with hissing hair.

In heav'n the Diræ call'd, and still at hand,
Before the throne of angry Jove they stand,
His ministers of wrath, and ready still
The minds of mortal men with fears to fill,
Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate
On realms or towns deserving of their fate,
Hurls down diseases, death, and deadly care,
And terrifies the guilty world with war.
One sister-plague of these from heav'n he sent,
To fright Juturna with a dire portent.
The pest comes whirling down: by far more
slow

Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow,
Or Cydon yew, when traversing the skies,
And drench'd in pois'nous juice, the sure de-
struction flies.

With such a sudden, and unseen a flight,

Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright
My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night!
The lashing of your wings I know too well,
The sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell!
These are the gifts you bring from haughty
Jove,

The worthy recompense of ravish'd love
Did he for this exempt my life from fate!
O hard conditions of immortal state!
Though born to death, not privileg'd to die,
But forc'd to bear impos'd eternity!
Take back your envious bribes, and let me go
Companion to my brother's ghost below!
The joys are vanish'd: nothing now remains
Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
What earth will open her devouring womb,
To rest a weary goddess in the tomb?"
She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said,
But in her azure mantle wrapp'd her head,
Then plung'd into her stream, with deep de-

spair;

And her last sobs came bubbling up in air.
Now stern Æneas waves his weighty spear
Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear :
"What further subterfuge can Turnus find?
What empty hopes are harbour'd in his mind?
"Tis not thy swiftness can secure thy flight:
Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight..
Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare
What skill and courage can attempt in war:
Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky
Or hid within the hollow earth to lie !"
The champion shook his head, and made this
short reply:

"No threats of thine my manly mind can move

Shot through the clouds, the daughter of the 'Tis hostile heav'n I dread, and partial Jove."

Night.

Soon as the field inclos'd she had in view,
And from afar her destin'd quarry knew—
Contracted, to the boding bird she turns,
Which haunts the ruin'd piles and hallow'd urns,
And beats about the tombs with mighty wings,
Where songs obscene on sepulchres she sings.
Thus lessen'd in her form, with frightful cries
The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies,
Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes.
A lazy chillness crept along his blood;
Chok'd was his voice; his hair with horror
stood.

Juturna from afar beheld her fly,

And knew th' ill omen, by her screaming cry,
And stridor of her wing. Amaz'd with fear,
Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her
flowing hair.

"Ah me!" she cries," in this unequal strife,
What can thy sister more to save thy life?
Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend
In arms with that inexorable fiend?

He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd'
The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast
Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around,
An antique stone he saw, the common bound
Of neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground—
So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days
Th' enormous weight from earth could hardly
raise.

He heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high,
Ran stagg'ring on against his enemy.
But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew
His way, or what unwieldy weight he threw.
His knocking knees are bent beneath the load,
And shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood.
The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short
For want of vigour, mocks his vain effort.
And as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight,
The sickly fancy labours in the night;
We seen to run; and, destitute of force,
Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course:
In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry :
The nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny;

And on the tongue th' falt'ring accents die :
So Turnus far'd: whatever means he tried
All force of arms, and points of art employ'd,
The Fury flew athwart, and made th' endea-
vour void.

A thousand various thoughts his soul confound:

He star'd about; nor aid, nor issue found: His own men stop the pass; and his own walls surround.

Once more he pauses, and looks out again,
And seeks the goddess-charioteer in vain.
Trembling he views the thund'ring chief ad-

vance,

And brandishing aloft the deadly lance : Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu❜ring foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow. Astonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear, Aim'd at his shield, he sees th' impending

spear.

The hero measur'd first, with narrow view, The destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw, With its full swing, the fatal weapon flew. Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls

Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong The lance drove on, and bore the death along: Naught could his seven-fold shield the prince avail,

Nor aught beneath his arms, the coat of mail: It pierc'd through all, and with a grisly wound Transfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky: Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.

Now, low on earth, the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upwards, and with arms dis play'd,

And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd.
"I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live
Use what the gods and thy good fortune give.
Yet think, oh! think, if mercy may be shown,
(Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son)—
Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave.
And for Anchises' sake, old Daunus save!
Or, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death,
Give to my friends my body void of breath!
The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life:
Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife:
Against a yielded man, 'tis mean,ignoble strife."

In deep suspense, the Trojan seem'd to stand, And, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand. He roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter'd on his side, The fatal spoil which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries, (Flames while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes,) [tend, "Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace preGlad as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go! 'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow." He rais'd his arm aloft, and at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distain'd his arms around; And the disdainful soul came rushing through the wound.

ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY.

Fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quæ ferrum valet, exors ipsa secandi.

THIS Essay contains the first detailed view of our author's opinions concerning the Drama, In many things, particularly in the main point of preference given to rhyme, he afterwards saw cause to retract some of the principles here laid down. We have endeavoured elsewhere to trace the progress and alteration of Dryden's sentiments upon these subjects. But the reader's attention may be here called to the elegant form into which he has thrown his essay, and which has been so often in vain followed by clumsy imitators. The scene of the dialogue, and the striking incident by which it is introduced, have the happiest effect in arresting the attention; and infinite address is displayed in conducting the subject, from the distant noise of a bloody sea-fight, into the academic prolusions of dramatic criticism.

The speakers in the dialogue are four; three of whom are persons "whom their wit and quality have made known to all the town." The fourth, of whose properties the author speaks more modestly, is NEANDER, under which feigned appellation Dryden himself is figured. In corroboration of this, Mr. Malone produces two instances, in which Dryden is called Neander by the famous Corinna, or Eliza Thomas. Moreover, the curious reader must be informed, that there is an anagram in the name of the second personage, LISIDEIUS, which points him out to be Sir Charles Sedley, or Sidley, for his name was spelled both ways. CRITES, the advocate for blank verse, is Sir Robert Howard, our author's friend and brother-in-law; who, in the preface to his plays pub

+ In an elegy on his death, and in a poem adiressed to Captain Gibbon.-Malone, Vol. 1. p. 68. For aught I know, an imperfect anagram may be intended; for the letters in the name of Dryden, with a very little aid, will make out the word Ne under.

1 For Dryden's connexion with this gay writer, see the dedication of the "Assignation," Lisideius Sidleius, a little changed.

VOL. II.-15

lished in 1665, had censured rhyming tragedies as unnatural. Prior has assured us, that EUGENIUS means the witty Earl of Dorset, then Lord Buckhurst.* A very critical observer may remark an inaccuracy in introducing his lordship as listening to the sound of a seafight, in which he was himself actually engaged. But Dryden did not mean to identify his speakers, and those shadowed out under them, otherwise than in their capacity of critics and authors.

Dryden has, with infinite address, avoided, or overcome, the obstacles which commonly attend an argumentative discussion, in form of a dialogue. The author of such disputations, in general, so obviously favours one of the combatants, that we as soon expect Hector to slay Achilles, or Turnus to defeat Eneas, as nourish the least hope of the unfriended champion

"The most eminent masters in their several ways appealed to his determination. Waller thought it an honour to consult him in the softness and harmony of his verse, and Dr. Sprat in the delicacy and turn of his prose. Dryden determines by him, under the character of Eugenius, as to the laws of dramatic poetry." ." This occurs in Prior's dedication of his poems to Lionel, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, in which he gives his father's character at length, 8vo. edit. 1709.

↑ The evening before the battle, he is said to have composed the lively song beginning,

To all you ladies now at land. Prior gives the following account of the matter: In the first Dutch war, he went a volunteer with the Duke of York; his behaviour during that campaign was such as distinguished the Sackvill, descended from that Hildebrand of the name, who was one of the greatest captains that came into England with the Conqueror. But his making a song the night before the engagement, and it is one of the prettiest that ever was made, carries with it so sedate a presence of mind, and such an unusual gallantry, that it deserves as much to be recorded as Alexander's jesting with his soldiers before he passed the Granicus, or William the First of Orange giving order over night for a battle, and desiring to be called in the morning, lest he should happen to sleep too long."

making any effectual resistance. Besides, in prepared arguments of this sort, as in prepared jests on the stage, there is an obvious opening left for those thrusts on which the author chiefly depends for success; so that, instead of admiring the victor, we are angry at the bad address of his antagonist. All these obstacles Dryden has contrived to surmount, by the numher of his characters, and the variety of their dialogue; where not only the argument of Neander's antagonist is fairly stated, but the topics are so judiciously varied, that the reader is brought to the point which the author aims at, without stiffness or constraint, as if in the ordinary flow of literary conversation. Thus, as we never see the purpose which Dryden wishes to attain, we arrive at his conclusion without fatigue or prejudice.

The "Essay on Dramatic Poetry" was as

sailed by several critics. Martin Clifford, of the Charter-House, accused our author of pilfering from the French critics, in the second of four very abusive letters. The only existing edition of these diatribes is one in 1687; but, from their date and import, this may have been a reprint. Sir Robert Howard also attacked the Essay, in the preface to his "Duke of Lerma," which led Dryden to assert his preference of rhyming tragedies, in the Defence prefixed to the "Indian Emperor."

This Essay was first published in 1668, or perhaps in the December preceding. Sixteen years afterwards, Dryden bestowed on it a thorough revisal; and having, in many places, altered and amended the expression with unu sual care, he published a second edition in 1684, with the following dedication to Lord Buck hurst, afterwards Earl of Dorset,

HE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES,

EARL OF DORSET AND MIDDLESEX,

LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF THEIR MAJESTIES' HOUSEHOLD, KNIGHT
OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &c.

MY LORD,

As I was lately reviewing my loose papers, amongst the rest I found this Essay; the writing of which, in this rude and indigested manner, wherein your lordship now sees it, served as an amusement to me in the country, when the violence of the last plague had driven me from the town. Seeing, then, our theatres shut up, I was engaged in these kind of thoughts with the same delight with which men think upon their absent mistresses. I confess I find many things in this discourse, which I do not now approve; my judgment being not a little altered since the writing of it, but whether for the better, or the worse, I know not: neither, indeed, is it much material in an Essay, where all Í have said is problematical. For the way of writing plays in verse, which I have seemed to favour, I have, since that time, laid the practice of it aside, till I have more leisure, because I find it troublesome and slow: But I am no way altered from my opinion of it, at least with any reasons which have opposed it. For your lordship may easily observe, that none are very violent against it, but those who either have not attempted it, or who have succeeded ill in their attempt. It is enough for me to have your lordship's example for my excuse in that little which I have done in it; and I am sure my adversaries can bring no such arguments against verse, as those with which the fourth act of "Pompey" will furnish me in its defence. Yet, my lord, you must suffer me a little to complain of you, that you too soon withdraw from us a contentment, of which we expected the continuance, because you gave it us so early. It is a revolt, without occasion, from your party, where your merits had already raised you to the highest commands, ard where you have not the excuse of other men, that you have been ill used, and therefore laid down arms. I know no other quarrel you can have to verse, than that which Spurina had to his beauty, when he tore and mangled the features of his

The great pestilence in 1663.

As early as 1676, Dryden confesses that he had grown weary of "his long-loved mistress, Rhyme." See the prologue to "Aureng zebe," the last rhyming tragedy which he ever wrote. But although Dry. den sometimes chose to abandon his own opinions, there is no instance of his owning conversion by the arguments of his adversaries.

The tragedy of "Pompey the Great," 4to. 1664, translated out of French by certain persons ef honour. Waller wrote the first act; Lord Buckhurst, it would seem, translated the fourth.

« AnteriorContinuar »