United States or Gibraltar ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"Here is an admirer of Dryden's compositions, she clings pertinaciously and with all the ardour of strong youth to his satire of 'Absalom and Achitophel, although 'tis a bitter lampoon on Monmouth and Shaftesbury; two men she heartily admires." Sir Julian leant over the Duchess and spoke softly, "I was not aware Mistress Penwick had been presented?"
The tragedies of Otway, Lee and Southern, are irresistibly moving, but they convey not such grand sentiments, and their language is far from being so poetical as Dryden's; now, if one dramatic poet writes to move, and another to enchant and instruct, as instruction is of greater consequence than being agitated, it follows naturally, that the latter is the most excellent writer, and possesses the greatest genius.
Dryden's fame has nodded; that of Pope begins to be drowsy; Chaucer is as sound as a top, and Spenser is snoring in the midst of his commentators. Milton, indeed, is quite awake; but, observe, he was at his very outset refreshed with a nap of half-a-century; and in the midst of all this we sons of degeneracy talk of immortality!
The age of the Restoration delighted in such exercises of the intellect vastly more than in flights of fancy or imagination. Lyrical Verse. While most of Dryden's best poetry is either satiric or didactic, he wrote three fine lyrical poems: Alexander's Feast, A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, and An Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew. All are distinguished by remarkable beauty and energy of expression.
Whether he would or no Dryden's temper was always intellectual. He was a poet, for if dead to the subtler and more delicate forms of imaginative delight he loved grandeur, and his amazing natural force enabled him to realize in great part the grandeur which he loved. But beneath all his poetry lay a solid bottom of reason.
We first went to the hall where the young men were eating their dinner. . . . We then went to the school-room, where every inch of the wall and benches is covered with names, some of them most illustrious, as Dryden's. There were two bunches of rods, which the Dean assured me were not mere symbols of power, but were daily used, as, indeed, the broken twigs scattered upon the floor plainly showed.
Such an epitaph resembles the conversation of a foreigner, who tells part of his meaning by words, and conveys part by signs. Intended for Mr. ROWE, in Westminster Abbey. Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust; Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Its shining passages, for there are such, remind one of distress-rockets sent up at intervals from a ship just about to founder, and sadden rather than cheer. The first part of the "Annus Mirabilis" is by no means clear of the false taste of the time, though it has some of Dryden's manliest verses and happiest comparisons, always his two distinguishing merits.
This done, she sang and carolled out so clear, That men and angels might rejoice to hear; Even wondering Philomel forgot to sing, And learned from her to welcome in the Spring." That is Dryden's, and this is how Chaucer tells of the same May morning:
At once the winds arise, The thunders roll, the forky lightning flies; In vain the master issues out commands, In vain the trembling sailors ply their hands: The tempest unforeseen prevents their care, And from the first, they labour in despair. Dryden's "Fables."
Word Of The Day