John Dryden – Three Poems

August 19, 2016 — Leave a comment

 

NSRW_John_Dryden

TODAY is the birthday of the poet
John Dryden, born 1631.

In remembrance of the poet, we offer three of our favorite poems…


On the Death
of a Very Young Gentleman


John Dryden


 

He who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind;
Would wonder, when he turn’d the volume o’er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnish’d; so bestow’d,
As more was never to one soul allow’d:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet durst I guess, Heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recall,
Ere we could spare, the mighty principal.

Thus then he disappeared, was rarified;
For ’tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
‘Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
‘Twas but the original forfeit of his blood:
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remain’d of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had wash’d it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.

As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love:
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatch’d away.

Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone:
And yet we murmur that he went so soon;
Though miracles are short and rarely shown.

Learn, then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame’s dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace:
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.

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