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And nothing may we use in vain :
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain.

DRYDEN.

BORN 1631-DIED 1700.

JOHN DRYDEN, one of the most eminent of the British poets, was born on the 6th of August, 1631, at Aldwinkle, Northamptonshire; and died in London on the 1st of May, 1700.-His works, consisting of plays, translations, and poems, are voluminous. He is one of those writers who, without any particular profession of piety, have occasionally done homage to religion. Dryden was a Roman catholic.

VENI CREATOR.

CREATOR spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid,

Come visit every pious mind;

Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command.
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,
And crown thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand, and hold them down.
Chase from our minds th' infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truth receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend th' Almighty Father's name :
Thy Saviour Son be glorify'd,
Who for lost man's redemption dy'd :
And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS ANNE
KILLIGREW.

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise

Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven-majestic pace!
Or, call'd to more superior bliss,
Thou treadst, with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there :
While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven.

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O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love!
O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adulterate age,

(Nay added fat pollutions of our own)

T' increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all:
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of fate;
And there the last assizes keep,

For those who wake, and those who sleep :
The Sacred poets first shall hear the sound,

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

BORN ABOUT 1654-DIED 1739.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE, a poet, a physician, and a miscellaneous writer, was a native of Wiltshire, and became an eminent medical practitioner in London. He was appointed physician to King William, and received the honour of knighthood. Many of his poems are of a serious character; among them are "The Creation," "The Redeemer," a paraphrase on the Book of Job, and a metrical version of the Psalms. Blackmore, though a man of respectable talents and irreproachable life, was, by some fatality, the butt of what were called the wits of his time. Dryden raised the hue and cry, which was continued by Pope, Dennis, and a host of contemporary witlings. This species of persecution he endured with

the most admirable temper, writing on, apparently unaffected by either praise or blame, from mere delight in the exercise of his own powers, and claiming the high motive of wishing to advance the cause of virtue and religion. From Addison, Locke, and latterly from Johnson, Blackmore received the applause to which his poetical talents and virtuous life entitled him. By Addison the poem of Creation was highly valued, and his judgment is confirmed by Johnson.

HAIL, King Supreme! of power immense abyss !
Father of Light! Exhaustless Source of bliss!
Thou Uncreated, Self-existent Cause,
Controll❜d by no superior being's laws;
Ere infant light essay'd to dart the ray,
Smil'd heav'nly sweet, and try'd to kindle day;
Ere the wide fields of ether were display'd,
Or silver stars cerulean spheres inlaid;
Ere yet the eldest child of Time was born,
Or verdant pride young Nature did adorn,
Thou art; and didst eternity employ
In unmolested peace, in plenitude of joy.

In its ideal frame the world design'd From ages past lay finish'd in Thy mind. Conform to this divine-imagin'd plan, With perfect art th' amazing work began. Thy glance survey'd the solitary plains, Where shapeless shade inert and silent reigns; Then in the dark and undistinguish'd space, Unfruitful, unenclos'd, and wild of face, Thy compass for the world mark'd out the destin'd place.

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