The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Vol II | Page 6

public eye.
We come to make a few remarks, in addition to some we have already
incidentally made, on Dryden's separate works. And first of his Lyrics.
His songs, properly so called, are lively, buoyant, and elastic; yet,
compared to those of Shakspeare, they are of "the earth, earthy." They
are the down of the thistle, carried on a light breeze upwards.
Shakspeare's resemble aerial notes--snatches of superhuman

melody--descending from above. Compared to the warm-gushing songs
of Burns, Dryden's are cold. Better than his songs are his Odes. That on
the death of Mrs Killigrew has much divided the opinion of critics--Dr
Johnson calling it magnificent, and Warton denying it any merit. We
incline to a mediate view. It has bold passages; the first and the last
stanzas are very powerful, and the whole is full of that rushing
torrent-movement characteristic of the poet. But the sinkings are as
deep as the swellings, and the inequality disturbs the general effect.
This is still more true of "Threnodia Augustalis," the ode on the death
of Charles II. Not only is its spirit fulsome, and its statement of facts
grossly partial, but many of its lines are feeble, and the whole is
wire-spun. Yet what can be nobler in thought and language than the
following, descriptive of the joy at the king's partial recovery!--
"Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that
they took;
Each to congratulate his friend made haste,
And long
inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."

How admirably this last line describes that sudden solution of the
hostile elements in human nature-that swift sense of unity in society,
produced by some glad tidings or great public enthusiasm, when for an
hour the Millennium is anticipated, and the poet's wish, that
"Man wi' man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be, for a' that,"
is fulfilled!
The two odes on St Cecilia's Day are both admirable in different ways.
"Alexander's Feast," like Burns's "Tam o' Shanter," seems to come out
at once "as from a mould." It is pure inspiration, but of the second
order--rather that of the Greek Pythoness than of the Hebrew prophet.
Coleridge or Wordsworth makes the objection to it, that the Bacchus it
describes is the mere vulgar deity of drink--
"Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face"--
not the ideal Bacchus, clad in vine-leaves, returning from the conquest
of India, and attended by a procession of the lions and tigers he had
tamed. But this, although a more imaginative representation of the god
of wine, had not been so suitably sung at an entertainment presided
over by an Alexander and a Thais, a drunk conqueror and a courtezan.
Dryden himself, we have seen, thought this the best ode that ever was
or would be written in the English language. In a certain sense he was
right. For vivacity, freedom of movement, and eloquence, it has never
been equalled. But there are some odes--such as Coleridge's "Ode to
France" and Wordsworth's "Power of Sound"--which as certainly excel
it in strength of imagination, grandeur of conception, and unity of
execution and effect.
Of Dryden's Satires we have already spoken in a general way.
"Absalom and Achitophel" is of course the masterpiece, and cannot be
too highly praised as a gallery of portraits, and for the daring force and
felicity of its style. Why enlarge on a poem, almost every line of which
has become a proverb? "The Medal" is inferior only in
condensation--in spirit and energy it is quite equal. In "MacFlecknoe,"
the mock-heroic is sustained with unparalleled vigour from the first line

to the last. Shadwell is a favourite of Dryden's ire. He fancies him, and
loves to empty out on his head all the riches of his wrath. What can be
more terrible than the words occurring in the second part of "Absalom
and Achitophel"--
"When wine hath given him courage to blaspheme,
He curses
God--but God before curst him!"
He has written two pieces, which may be called didactic or
controversial poems--"Religio Laici" and "The Hind and Panther." The
chief power of the former is in its admirable combination of two things,
often dissociated--reason and rhyme; and its chief interest lies in the
light it casts upon Dryden's uncertainty of religious view. The thought
has little originality, the versification less varied music than is his wont,
and no passage of transcendent power occurs. Far more faulty in plan,
and far more unequal, is "The Hind and Panther;" but it has, on the
other hand, many passages of amazing eloquence--some satirical
pictures equal to anything in "Absalom and Achitophel"--some vivid
natural descriptions; and even the absurdities of the fable, and the
sophistries of the argument add to its character as the most exquisitely
perverted piece of ingenuity in the language. Nothing but high genius,
very vigorously exerted, could