The works of John Dryden Illustrated with notes, historical, critical, and explanatory, and a life of the author, by Sir Walter Scott |
 | IX. |
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TO THE AUTHOR OF THAT INCOMPARABLE POEM ABOVE MENTIONED. |
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| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV, XV. |
 | The works of John Dryden |  |
218
TO THE AUTHOR OF THAT INCOMPARABLE POEM ABOVE MENTIONED.
Homer, amazed, resigns the hill to you,
And stands i'the crowd, amidst the panting crew:
Virgil and Horace dare not show their face,
And long admired Juv'nal quits his place;
For this one mighty poem hath done more
Than all those poets could have done before.
Satire, or statesmen, poet, or divine,
Thou any thing, thou every thing that's fine,
Thy lines will make young Absalom relent;
And, though 'tis hard, Achitophel repent;
And stop—as thou hast done—
Thus once thy rival muse, on Cooper's Hill,
With the true story would not Fatme kill.
No politics exclude repentance quite;
Despair makes rebels obstinately fight;
'Tis well when errors do for mercy call;
Unbloody conquests are the best of all.
And stands i'the crowd, amidst the panting crew:
Virgil and Horace dare not show their face,
And long admired Juv'nal quits his place;
For this one mighty poem hath done more
Than all those poets could have done before.
Satire, or statesmen, poet, or divine,
Thou any thing, thou every thing that's fine,
Thy lines will make young Absalom relent;
And, though 'tis hard, Achitophel repent;
And stop—as thou hast done—
Thus once thy rival muse, on Cooper's Hill,
With the true story would not Fatme kill.
No politics exclude repentance quite;
Despair makes rebels obstinately fight;
'Tis well when errors do for mercy call;
Unbloody conquests are the best of all.
Methinks I see a numerous mixed crowd
Of seduced patriots crying out aloud
For grace, to royal David. He, with tears,
Holds forth his sceptre, to prevent their fears,
And bids them welcome to his tender breast:
Thus may the people, thus the king be blest.
Then tunes his harp, thy praises to rehearse,
Who owes his son and subjects to thy verse.
Of seduced patriots crying out aloud
For grace, to royal David. He, with tears,
Holds forth his sceptre, to prevent their fears,
And bids them welcome to his tender breast:
Thus may the people, thus the king be blest.
Then tunes his harp, thy praises to rehearse,
Who owes his son and subjects to thy verse.
| The works of John Dryden | |