II.

Th'ambitious Eye that seeks alone,Where Beauties Wonders most are shown;Of all that bounteous Heaven displays,Let him on brightAlindagaze;And in her high Example see,All can admir'd, or wisht-for, be!

An unmatch't Form, Mind like endow'd,Estate, and Title great and proud;A Charge Heaven dares to few commit,So few, like her, can manage it;Without all Blame or Envy bear,The being Witty, Great and Fair!

So well these Murd'ring Weapons weild,As first Herself with them to shield,Then slaughter none in proud Disport,Destroy those she invites to Court:Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more,She wounds no Hearts, though All adore.

'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites,A Passion, like it self, excites:The Paragon, though all admire,Kindles in none a fond desire:No more than those the Kings RenownAnd State applaud, affect his Crown.

Return my dearest Lord, at length return,Let me no longer your sad absence mourn,Iliumin Dust, does no more Work afford,No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy,Helinthe Fire-brand both ofGreeceandTroy,E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen,E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen?Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe,Which now bothGreeceandPhrygiaover-flow:Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed,Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led:I should not then have trembled at the FameOfHectorswarlike and victorious Name.Why did I wish the NobleHectorSlain?WhyIliumruin'd? Rise, O rise again!Again great City flourish from thine Urne:For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,)That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault:That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame,Who, when thou fired'stTroy, did thee inflameAnd now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life,Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.

Return my dearest Lord, at length return,Let me no longer your sad absence mourn,Iliumin Dust, does no more Work afford,No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.

Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy,Helinthe Fire-brand both ofGreeceandTroy,E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen,E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen?Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe,Which now bothGreeceandPhrygiaover-flow:Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed,Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led:I should not then have trembled at the FameOfHectorswarlike and victorious Name.

Why did I wish the NobleHectorSlain?WhyIliumruin'd? Rise, O rise again!Again great City flourish from thine Urne:For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,)That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault:That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame,Who, when thou fired'stTroy, did thee inflameAnd now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life,Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.

When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,And for a Monument, I leave myVERSE.

Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise,Thy sully'd Habitation leave,To Dust no longer cleave,Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.Thy native Beauty re-assume,Prune each neglected Plume,Till more than Silver white,Then burnisht Gold more bright,Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.

The Bird to whom the spacious Aire was given,As in a smooth and trackless Path to go,A Walk which does no Limits knowPervious alone to Her and Heaven:Should she her Airy Race forget,On Earth affect to walk and sit;Should she so high a Priviledge neglect,As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect,What could she of Wrong complain,Who thus her Birdly Kind doth stain,If all her Feathers moulted were,And naked she were left and bare,The Jest and Scorn of Earth and Aire?

The Bird of Paradice the Soul,

As you are Young, if you'l be also Wise,Danger with Honour court, Quarrels despise;Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold,To Beauty when no Slave, and less to Gold;When Vertue you dare own, not think it odd,Or ungenteel to say, Ifear a God.

Not that thy Fair HandShould lead me from my deep Dispaire,Or thy Love,Cloris, End my Care,And back my Steps command:But if hereafter thou Retire,To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire,This Clue I'll leave behinde,By which thou maist untwineThe Saddest Way,To shun the Day,That ever Grief did find.

First take thy Hapless WayAlong the Rocky Northern Shore,Infamous for the Matchless StoreOf Wracks within that Bay.None o're the Cursed Beach e're crost,Unless the Robb'd, the Wrack'd, or LostWhere on the Strand lye spread,The Sculls of many Dead.Their mingl'd Bones,Among the Stones,Thy Wretched Feet must tread.

The Trees along the Coast,Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms,As if they plaind the North-winds harms,And Youthful Verdure lost.There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew.In it a Brooke doth fleet,The Noise must guide thy Feet,For there's no Light,But all is Night,And Darkness that you meet.

Follow th'Infernal Wave,Until it spread into a Floud,Poysoning the Creatures of the Wood,There twice a day a Slave,I know not for what Impious Thing,Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.It adds to the sad Place,To hear how at each Pace,He curses God,Himself, his Load,For such his Forlorn Case.

Next make no Noyse, nor talk,Until th'art past a Narrow Glade,Where Light does only break the Shade;'Tis a Murderers Walk.Observing this thou need'st not fear,He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere.Though there's no Clock or Chime,The Hour he did his Crime,His Soul awakes,His Conscience quakesAnd warns him that's the Time.

Thy Steps must next advance,Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell,Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell,Witches here Nightly Dance,And Sprights joyn with them when they call,The Murderer dares not view the Ball.For Snakes and Toads conspire,To make them up a Quire.And for their Light,And Torches bright,The Fiends dance all on fire.

Press on till thou descrieAmong the Trees sad, gastly, wan,Thinne as the Shadow of a Man,One that does ever crie,She is not; and she ne're will be,Despair and Death come swallow me,Leave him; and keep thy way,No more thou now canst strayThy Feet do stand,In Sorrows Land,It's Kingdomes every way.

Here Gloomy Light will shewReard like a Castle to the Skie,A Horrid Cliffe there standing nighShading a Creek below.In which Recess there lies a Cave,Dreadful as Hell, still as the Grave.Sea-Monsters there abide,The coming of the Tide,No Noise is near,To make them fear,God-sleep might there reside.

But when the Boysterous Seas,With Roaring Waves resumes this Cell,You'd swear the Thunders there did dwell.So lowd he makes his Plea;So Tempests bellow under ground,And Ecchos multiply the Sound!This is the place I chose,Changeable like my Woes,Now calmly Sad,Then Raging Mad,As move my Bitter Throwes.

Such Dread besets this Part,That all the Horrour thou hast past,Are but Degrees to This at last.The sight must break thy Heart.Here Bats and Owles that hate the LightFly and enjoy Eternal Night.Scales of Serpents, Fish-bones,Th'Adders Eye, and Toad-stones,Are all the Light,Hath blest my Sight,Since first began my Groans.

When thus I lost the Sense,Of all the heathful World calls Bliss,And held it Joy, those Joys to miss,When Beauty was Offence:Celestial Strains did read the Aire,Shaking these Mansions of Despaire;A Form Divine and bright,Stroke Day through all that NightAs when Heav'ns QueenIn Hell was seen,With wonder and affright!

The Monsters fled for fear,The Terrors of the Cursed WoodDismantl'd were, and where they stood,No longer did appear.The Gentle Pow'r, which wrought this thing,Eudorawas, who thus did sing.Dissolv'd isClorisspell,From whence thy Evils fell,Send her this Clue,'Tis there most dueAnd thy Phantastick Hell.

How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming SunDarkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,Ne're courtedDaphnewith a brighter Ray!And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,As if notDaphne, but himself were dead!And all the little Winged TroopForbear to sing, and sit and droop;The Flowers do languish on their Beds,And fading hang their Mourning Heads;The littleCupidsdiscontented, shew,In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,A third sits blubring in Despaire,Confessing though, in Love, he be,A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he:Whence is this Evil hurl'd,On all the sweetness of the World?Among those Things with Beauty shine,(Both Humane natures, and Divine)There was not so much sorrow spi'd,No, not that Day the sweetAdonisdied!

Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above,Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.My Prayer not spoken out,One of the Winged Rout,With Indignation great,Sprung from his Airie-Seat,And mounting to a Higher Cloud,With Thunder, or a Voice as loudCried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods,Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent!I follow'd with my watchful Eye,To the Place where the Shaft did flie,But O unheard-of Prodigy.It was retorted back again,And he that sent it, felt the pain,Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain!But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found,And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.

The Place from which the Arrow did return,Swifter then sent, and with the speed did burn,Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare,Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire,On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tieA purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high,To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower,And boast the Owners Dignity and Power!This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose,And Heaven and Nature both did discompose,A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright,Lay like a Body of Collected Light,But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd,But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd,Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows,Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews.

But O thou no less Blind,Than Wild and Savage Mind,Who Discipline dar'st name,Thy Outrage and thy shame,And hop'st a Radiant Crown to getAll Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit,Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it!May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand,Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,Thy Hand, that Furie like——But see!ByApollosSacred Tree,By his ever Tuneful Lyre,And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,Eudorasshe has done this DeedAnd made the World thus in its Darling bleed!I know the Cruel Dame,Too well instructed by my Flame!But see her shape! But see her Face!In her Temple such isDiana's Grace!Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies!

What blood ofCentaursdid thy Bosom warme,And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme?Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud,As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,That Rage of Seas, and People could command,And calme Diseases with the Charming strings,Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things?But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride,Because thou didst Excel the World beside,And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine,Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine!And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see,Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee,And punisht in the Lady as unfit,What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.Divine she is, or else Divine must be,A Borne or else a Growing Deitie!

While thus I did exclaime,And wildly rage and blame,Behold theSylvan-QuireDid all at one conspire,With shrill and cheerful Throats,T'assume their chirping Notes;The Heav'ns refulgent EyeDance't in the clear'd-up Skie,And so triumphant shon,As seven-days Beams he had on!The little Loves burn'd with Nobler Fire,Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings,And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings.I turn'd the little Nymph to view,She singing and did smiling shew;Eudoraled a heavenly strain,Her Angels Voice did eccho it again!I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought,But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought.She also brighter seem'd, than she had been,Vertue darts forth a Lightning 'bove the Skin.Eudoraalso shew'd as heretofore,When her soft Graces I did first adore.I saw, what one didNobly Will,The othersweetly did fulfil;Their Actions all harmoniously did sute,And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.

DivineThaliastrike th'Harmonious Lute,But with a Stroke so Gentle as may suteThe silent gliding of the Howers,Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;Th'ascending or the falling Dew,Which none can see, though all find true.For thus alone,Can be shewn,How downie, how smooth,Eudoradoth Move,How Silken her Actions appear,The Aire of her Face,Of a gentler GraceThen those that do stroke the Eare.Her Address so sweet,So Modestly Meet,That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String,Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing!O This to express from thy Hand must fall,Then Musicks self, something more Musical.

In Mr.DrydensOde, Stanzo 5. at the end of the first line read [None.] p. 9. v. 6. for her r. its. p. 24. v. 1. for renown'd r. renowned. p. 38. v. last but one, for renounced r. renowned. p. 57. v. 1, instead of the Interrogation-point, make a Comma. p. 97. v. 13. r. burn'd with a nobler fier.

[1]The most recent study of Dryden's poem is David M. Vieth's "Irony in Dryden's Ode to Anne Killigrew,"Studies in Philology, LXII (January, 1965), pp. 91-100, which lists earlier criticism. Professor Vieth refers to Anne Killigrew's poems several times to illustrate his theory of Dryden's intentions.

[2]Anthony Wood,Athenae Oxonienses(1721), c. 1036. Biographical and critical comment is also to be found in George Ballard,Memoirs of Several Ladies(1752), pp. 337-45; T. Cibber,Lives of the Poets(1753), II, 224-6; Ellen Creathorne Clayton,English Female Artists(1876), I, 59-70 andThe Poems of Anne Countess of Winchelsea, edited by Myra Reynolds (1903), pp. xxiii-xxiv.

[3]A bibliographical analysis of the volume is given by Hugh Macdonald,John Dryden a Bibliography(1939), pp. 42-43.

[4]On Elys's life see Anthony Wood,Athenae Oxonienses(1721), c. 943-44.

=== Transcriber's Note: ===1.) For explanation ofpage misnumberingfor pages 68 and 69, see Richard Morton's comments in theINTRODUCTION,p. ix2.) Right braces spanning multiple lines in the text have been replaced with vertical"}"'s.3.) Changed spelling of "pictturesque" to "picturesque" in first paragraph of theINTRODUCTION.4.) In poem"the Second EPIGRAM"changed spelling of"Bellinda"to"Billinda"in Line 1 to make it consistent with title and TOC.

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