The difference between genuine poetry and the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly this: their poetry is conceived and composed in their wits, genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul. The difference between the two kinds of poetry is immense. They differ profoundly in their modes of evolution. The poetic language of our eighteenth century in general is the language of men composing without their eye on the object, as Wordsworth excellently said of Dryden; the language merely recalling the object, as the common language of prose does, and then dressing it out with a certain smartness and brilliancy for the fancy and understanding. This is called ‘splendid diction’. The evolution of the poetry of our eighteenth century is likewise intellectual; it proceeds by ratiocination, antithesis, ingenious turns and conceits. This poetry is often eloquent, and always, in the hands of such masters as Dryden and Pope, clever; but it does not take us much below the surface of things, it does not give us the emotion of seeing things in their truth and beauty. The language of genuine poetry, on the other hand, is the language of one composing with his eye on the object; its evolution is that of a thing which has been plunged in the poet’s soul until it comes forth naturally and necessarily. This sort of evolution is infinitely simpler than the other, and infinitely more satisfying; the same thing is true of the genuinely poetic language likewise. But they are both of them infinitely harder of attainment; they come only from those who, as Emerson says, ‘live from a great depth of being.’
MATTHEW ARNOLD: ‘Thomas Gray’, Essays in Criticism: Second Series (1888)
Educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, Dryden was appointed Poet Laureate and Historiographer Royal in 1668 and 1670, posts that – having converted to Catholicism in 1686 during the reign of the Catholic James II – he lost on the accession of William and Mary in 1689. He remained loyal to his Catholic faith, which meant that when the Protestant William ascended the throne in 1689, he was compelled to keep writing in order to earn a living. He was a shareholder for ten years, from 1654 to 1664, of the Theatre Royal, and always showed a keen interest in drama and music. He was appointed Poet Laureate in recognition of such poems as Annus Mirabilis (1666) and achievements in the theatre, for which he wrote successful comedies and heroic tragedies. In 1684 he started work on his semi-opera King Arthur, the prologue of which he expanded into a full-length opera called Albion and Albanius, which was set by Louis Grabu in 1685 and flopped. After the success of Purcell’s The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian (1690) to a libretto by Thomas Betterton or possibly John Dryden, Dryden became aware of Purcell’s potential as an operatic composer. He asked him to provide music for his play Amphitryon (Purcell obliged with two songs, one duet and some instrumental music); but it was Purcell’s music to Dryden’s revised King Arthur that met with the greatest success. Dryden also wrote the dedication of Purcell’s The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian, in which he shows how deeply he had thought about opera and setting words to music – see the Introduction.
During the forty years between the return of Charles II in 1660 until his own death in 1700, Dryden was, with the possible exception of Milton, the most important literary figure in England. He completed Alexander’s Feast, or The Power of Musique in the autumn of 1697, and it was immediately set to music (now lost) by Jeremiah Clarke and performed on 22 November. Dryden wrote to his publisher, Tonson, ‘that my Ode is esteemed the best of all my poetry, by all the Town: I thought so myself when I writ it.’ Dryden’s ode differs from the Pindaric ode, in that each stanza is varied in shape and rhythm to accord with its particular subject. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.
Fairest Isle, all Isles Excelling,
Seat of Pleasures, and of Loves;
Venus here will chuse her Dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian Groves.
Cupid, from his Fav’rite Nation,
Care and Envy will Remove;
Jealousy, that poysons Passion,
And Despair that dies for Love.
Gentle Murmurs, sweet Complaining,
Sighs that blow the Fire of Love;
Soft Repulses, kind Disdaining,
Shall be all the Pains you prove.
Ev’ry Swain shall pay his Duty,
Grateful ev’ry Nymph shall prove;
And as these Excel in Beauty,
Those shall be Renown’d for Love.
Musick for a while
Shall all your cares beguile:
Wondring how your pains were eas’d: –
And disdaining to be pleas’d; –
Till Alecto2 free the dead
From the eternal bands;
Till the snakes drop from her head,
And whip from out her hands.
I attempt from Loves Sickness to fly in vaine
Since I am my Self my own feaver and Pain.
No more now fond heart with Pride no more swell;
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebell.
For Love has more Powr & less mercy than fate
To make vs Seek ruin and Love those that hate.
Mark how the Lark and Linnet sing,
With rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of Night,
When Philomel begins her Heav’nly lay,
They cease their mutual spight,
Drink in her Musick with delight,
And list’ning and silent, and silent and list’ning, and list’ning and silent obey.
So ceas’d the rival Crew, when Purcell came,
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
Struck dumb, they all admir’d
The godlike man,
Alas, too soon retir’d,1
As He too late began.
We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore;
Had He been there,
Their Sovereigns3 fear
Had sent Him back before.
The pow’r of Harmony too well they know,
He long e’er this had Tun’d their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.
The Heav’nly Quire, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Musick from the Sky:
They handed him along,
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tunefull Voice,
Lament his lott: but at your own rejoyce.
Now live secure, and linger out your days,
The Gods are pleas’d alone with Purcell’s Layes,
Nor know to mend their Choice.
Chloe found Amyntas lying,
All in Tears, upon the Plain;
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful Swain
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful Swain.
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him that he lov’d in vain:
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he lov’d in vain:
But repenting, and complying,
When he kiss’d, she kiss’d again:
Kiss’d him up, before his dying;
Kiss’d him up, and eas’d his pain.
’Twas at the Royal Feast, for Persia won,
By Philip’s1 Warlike Son:
Aloft in awful State
The God-like Heroe sate
His valiant Peers2 were plac’d around;
Their Brows with Roses and with Myrtles bound.
(So should Desert in Arms3 be Crown’d:)
The lovely Thais4 by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern Bride
In Flow’r of Youth and Beauty’s Pride.
Happy, happy, happy Pair!
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.
Happy, happy, happy Pair!
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.
Timotheus5 plac’d on high
Amid the tuneful Quire,
With flying Fingers touch’d the Lyre:
The trembling Notes ascend the Sky,
And Heav’nly Joys inspire.
The Song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful Seats above,
(Such is the Pow’r of mighty Love.)
A Dragon’s fiery Form bely’d the God:
Sublime on Radiant Spires He rode,
When He to fair Olympia6 press’d:
And while He sought her snowy Breast:
Then, round her slender Waist he curl’d,
And stamp’d an Image of himself, a Sov’raign of the World.
The list’ning Crowd admire7 the lofty Sound,
A present Deity8, they shout around:
A present Deity, the vaulted Roofs rebound.
With ravish’d Ears
The Monarch hears,
Assumes the God,9
Affects to nod,
And seems10 to shake the Spheres.
With ravish’d Ears
The Monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the Spheres.
The praise of Bacchus11 then the sweet Musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever Fair, and ever Young:
The jolly God in Triumph comes;
Sound the Trumpets; beat the Drums:
Flush’d with a purple Grace
He shews his honest12 Face:
Now give the Hautboys13 breath; He comes, He comes.
Bacchus ever Fair and Young
Drinking Joys did first ordain:14
Bacchus Blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the Soldiers Pleasure;
Rich the Treasure;
Sweet the Pleasure;
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.
Bacchus Blessings are a Treasure;
Drinking is the Soldiers Pleasure;
Rich the Treasure;
Sweet the Pleasure;
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.
Sooth’d with the Sound the King grew vain;
Fought all his Battails o’er again;15
And thrice He routed all his Foes; and thrice He slew the slain.
The Master16 saw the Madness rise;
His17 glowing Cheeks, his ardent Eyes;
And while He Heav’n and Earth defy’d,
Chang’d his Hand18, and check’d his Pride.
He chose a Mournful Muse,
Soft Pity to infuse;
He sung Darius19 Great and Good,
By too severe a Fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high Estate,
And weltring in his Blood:
Deserted20 at his utmost Need
By those his former Bounty fed:
On the bare Earth expos’d He lies,
With not a Friend to close his Eyes.
With down-cast Looks the joyless Victor sate,
Revolving21 in his alter’d Soul
The various Turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;
And Tears began to flow.
Revolving in his alter’d Soul
The various Turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;
And Tears began to flow.
The Mighty Master22 smil’d to see
That Love was in the next Degree:
’Twas but a Kindred-Sound to move,23
For Pity melts the Mind to Love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian Measures,
Soon he sooth’d his Soul to Pleasures.
War, he sung, is Toil and Trouble;
Honour but an empty Bubble.
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the World be worth thy Winning,
Think, O think, it worth Enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the Good the Gods provide thee.
The Many24 rend the Skies, with loud applause;
So Love was Crown’d, but Musique won the Cause.
The Prince25, unable to conceal his Pain26,
Gaz’d on the Fair27
Who caus’d his Care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish’d Victor sunk upon her Breast.
The Prince, unable to conceal his Pain,
Gaz’d on the Fair
Who caus’d his Care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish’d Victor sunk upon her Breast.
Now strike the Golden Lyre again:
A lowder yet, and yet a lowder Strain.
Break his Bands of Sleep asunder,
And rouze him, like a rattling Peal of Thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid Sound
Has rais’d up his Head;
As awak’d from the Dead,
And amaz’d, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies28 arise!
See the Snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their Hair,
And the Sparkles that flash from their Eyes!
Behold a ghastly Band,
Each a Torch in his Hand!
Those are Grecian Ghosts, that in Battail were slayn,
And unbury’d remain
Inglorious on the Plain:
Give the Vengeance due
To the Valiant Crew29.
Behold how they toss their Torches on high,
How they point to the Persian Abodes,
And glitt’ring Temples of their Hostile Gods.
The Princes applaud with a furious Joy;
And the King seized a Flambeau with Zeal to destroy;
To light him to his Prey,
And, like another Hellen, fir’d another Troy.30
And the King seyzed a Flambeau, with Zeal to destroy;
Thais led the Way,
To light him to his Prey,
And, like another Hellen, fir’d another Troy.
Thus long ago
’Ere heaving Bellows31 learn’d to blow,
While Organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing Flute
And sounding Lyre,
Cou’d swell the Soul to rage, or kindle soft Desire.
At last Divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the Vocal Frame32;
The sweet Enthusiast33, from her Sacred Store,
Enlarg’d the former narrow Bounds,
And added Length to solemn Sounds,34
With Nature’s Mother-Wit, and Arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the Prize,
Or both divide the Crown:
He rais’d a Mortal to the Skies;
She drew an Angel down.35
At last Divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the Vocal Frame;
The sweet Enthusiast, from her Sacred Store,
Enlarg’d the former narrow Bounds,
And added Length to solemn Sounds,
With Nature’s Mother-Wit, and Arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the Prize,
Or both divide the Crown:
He rais’d a Mortal to the Skies;
She drew an Angel down.
From Harmony, from heav’nly Harmony
This universal Frame began;1
When Nature underneath a heap
Of jarring Atomes lay,
And cou’d not heave her Head,
The tuneful Voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold and hot and moist and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And MUSICK’s pow’r obey.
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal Frame began:
From Harmony to Harmony
Through all the Compass of the Notes it ran,
The Diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot MUSICK raise and quell!
When Jubal2 struck the corded Shell,
His list’ning Brethren stood around,
And, wond’ring, on their Faces fell
To worship that Celestial Sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that Shell
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot MUSICK raise and quell!
The TRUMPETS loud Clangor
Excites us to Arms
With shrill Notes of Anger
And mortal Alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thund’ring DRUM
Cryes, heark the Foes come;
Charge, Charge, ’tis too late to retreat.
The soft complaining FLUTE
In dying Notes discovers
The Woes of hopeless Lovers,
Whose Dirge is whisper’d by the warbling LUTE.
Sharp VIOLINS proclaim
Their jealous Pangs and Desperation,
Fury, frantick Indignation,
Depth of Pains and Height of Passion,
For the fair, disdainful Dame.
But oh! what Art can teach
What human Voice can reach
The sacred ORGANS Praise?
Notes inspiring holy Love,
Notes that wing their heav’nly Ways
To mend the Choires above.
Orpheus cou’d lead the savage race;
And Trees unrooted left their Place,
Sequacious of the Lyre;
But bright CECILIA rai’sd the Wonder high’r:
When to her ORGAN vocal Breath was giv’n,
An Angel heard, and straight appear’d
Mistaking Earth for Heav’n.
As from the pow’r of Sacred Lays
The Spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator’s Praise
To all the bless’d above;
So, when the last and dreadful Hour
This crumbling Pageant shall devour,
The TRUMPET shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And MUSICK shall untune the Sky.