DRYDEN’S POEMS.

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE I.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND SIR ROBERT HOWARD,[1] ON HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.

  As there is music uninform’d by art
  In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,
  The birds in unfrequented shades express,
  Who, better taught at home, yet please us less: 
  So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
  Which shames composure, and its art excels. 
  Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
  Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face. 
  Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
  Their even calmness does suppose them deep; 10
  Such is your muse:  no metaphor swell’d high
  With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky: 
  Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
  Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain. 
  So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
  Did never but in Samson’s riddle meet. 
  ’Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
  And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear. 
  Either your art hides art, as Stoics feign
  Then least to feel when most they suffer pain; 20
  And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
  What hidden springs within the engine be: 
  Or ’tis some happiness that still pursues
  Each act and motion of your graceful muse. 
  Or is it fortune’s work, that in your head
  The curious net,[2] that is for fancies spread,
  Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
  While rich ideas there are only caught? 
  Sure that’s not all; this is a piece too fair
  To be the child of chance, and not of care. 30
  No atoms casually together hurl’d
  Could e’er produce so beautiful a world. 
  Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
  As would destroy the providence of wit. 
  ’Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel
  Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel. 
  To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
  Is what alone your Pegasus can do. 
  Great Hercules himself could ne’er do more,
  Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. 40
  Your easier odes, which for delight were penn’d,
  Yet our instruction make their second end: 
  We’re both enrich’d and pleased, like them that woo
  At once a beauty and a fortune too. 
  Of moral knowledge poesy was queen,
  And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
  Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large,
  And, not content with that, debauch’d their charge. 
  Like some brave captain, your successful pen
  Restores the exiled to her crown again:  50
  And gives us hope, that having seen the days
  When nothing flourish’d but fanatic bays,
  All will at length in this opinion rest,—­