Such were the tools; but a whole Hydra more
Remains of sprouting heads too long to score.
Some of their chiefs were princes of the land;
In the first rank of these did Zimri1 stand,
A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts and nothing long ;
But in the course of one revolving moon
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ;
Then all for women, painting, riming, drinking,
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman, who could every hour employ
With something new to wish or to enjoy!
Railing and praising were his usual themes,
And both, to show his judgement, in extremes :
So over violent or over civil

That every man with him was God or Devil.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;
Nothing went unrewarded but desert.2

Beggared by fools whom still he found too late,
He had his jest, and they had his estate.

He laughed himself from court; then sought relief
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief:
For spite of him, the weight of business fell
On Absalom and wise Achitophel;

Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft,
He left not faction, but of that was left.

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1 George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham: one of the members of the Cabal. He published in 1672 a burlesque called The Rehearsal, in which Dryden was satirized under the name of Bayes. Dryden retaliated with the character of Zimri, which, according to his own account, was good-humouredly received. 'He was too witty,' says Dryden, 'to resent it as an injury.'

2 A reference to Butler (the author of Hudibras), whom Buckingham neglected, and who died in want.

THE HIND AND THE PANTHER

PART III, LINES 993-1033

The Hind in this allegorical satire represents the Church of Rome; the Panther the Church of England. At the beginning of the poem they meet and enter into friendly discussion as to the merits of their respective creeds. During this discussion the Hind relates the fable of the pigeons and the fowls-an allegory within an allegory-by which again the two Churches are represented. The pigeons and fowls are owned by ‘a plain good man', possessor of 'three fair lineal lordships', and the story of them proceeds as follows:—

ANOTHER farm he had behind his house,
Not overstocked, but barely for his use;
Wherein his poor domestic poultry1 fed
And from his pious hands received their bread.
Our pampered pigeons with malignant eyes
Beheld these inmates and their nurseries;
Though hard their fare, at evening and at morn,
A cruse of water and an ear of corn,

Yet still they grudged that modicum, and thought
A sheaf in every single grain was brought.
Fain would they filch that little food away,
While unrestrained those happy gluttons prey.
And much they grieved to see so nigh their hall
The bird that warned St. Peter of his fall;
That he should raise his mitred crest on high,
And clap his wings and call his family
To sacred rites; and vex the ethereal powers
With midnight matins at uncivil hours;
Nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest,
Just in the sweetness of their morning rest.

'Beast of a bird, supinely when he might Lie snug and sleep, to rise above the light!

1 The Church of Rome.

2 The Church of England.

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20

What if his dull forefathers used that cry,
Could he not let a bad example die?

The world was fallen into an easier way;
This age knew better than to fast and pray.
Good sense in sacred worship would appear
So to begin as they might end the year.
Such feats in former times had wrought the falls
Of crowing chanticleers in cloistered walls.
Expelled for this and for their lands, they fled,
And sister Partlet, with her hooded head,

Was hooted hence, because she would not pray abed.
The way to win the restive world to God

Was to lay by the disciplining rod,

Unnatural fasts, and foreign forms of prayer:
Religion frights us with a mien severe.
"Tis prudence to reform her into ease,
And put her in undress, to make her please;
A lively faith will bear aloft the mind.
And leave the luggage of good works behind.

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40

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began;
When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could 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 Music's power 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 Music raise and quell?
When Jubal' struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, 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 Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

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30

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

1 Genesis iv. 21,

40

But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

Grand Chorus.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed 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 Music shall untune the sky.

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FROM THE PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION OF OVID'S EPISTLES

No man is capable of translating poetry, who, besides a genius to that art, is not a master both of his author's language, and of his own; nor must we understand the language only of the poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expression, which are the characters that

1i. e. following.