THE FIRE OF LONDON.

"Come, thou monarch of the vine,Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne."

—Antony and Cleopatra, Act ii, sc. 7.

9.thrice he slew the slain.How could he slay the slain?

10.Darius.At the time of this feast at Persepolis, Darius, the vanquished king of Persia, was still living, although a fugitive. In the following year Alexander pursued him into the Parthian Desert, where he was murdered by the satrap of Bactria. By order of Alexander, the body of the unfortunate king was sent to Persepolis, to be buried in the tombs of the kings.

11.expos'd he lies.Dryden seems to have written this under the impression that Darius had been killed before the time of the great feast at Persepolis.

12.close his eyes.Compare this with the lines from Pope ("Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady"):

"By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed;By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed."

13.a sigh he stole.Sighed silently. His sighs when the result of pity were not very distinctly uttered. Compare Shakespeare:

"And then the lover,Sighing like a furnace."

—As You Like It, Act ii, sc. 7.

And then read, in the next stanza, how Alexander sighed when moved by love.

14.pity melts the mind to love.Compare:

"Pity swells the tide of love."

—Young's Night Thoughts, III, 106.

"Pity's akin to love."

—Southern's Oroonoko, II, 1.

15.Lydian measures.The people of Lydia were noted for the effeminacy of their manners. And Lydian music was peculiarly soft and voluptuous.

"And ever against eating cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs."

—Milton's L'Allegro, 135.

"And all the while sweet Musicke did divideHer looser notes with Lydian harmony."

—Spenser's Faerie Queene, III, 1.

Observe the change in metre in the ten lines beginning "Softly sweet." What does the wordsweetmodify?

16.Honor, but an empty bubble.So Shakespeare:

"Honor is a mere scutcheon."

—1 Henry IV., Act v, sc. 1.

17.The many.The multitude.

18.sigh'd and look'd.He no longerstealsa sigh, as he did when pitying Darius. See note13, above.

19.Break his bands of sleep.The music now is very different from the Lydian measures which "soothed his soul to pleasures." "Suidas," says Dr. Warton, "mentions the Orthian style in music, in which Timotheus is said to have played to Alexander; and one Antigenidas inflamed this prince still more by striking into what were called Harmatian measures. Quintus Curtius gives a minute description of the burning of the palace at Persepolis, when Alexander was accompanied by Thais. But it does not appear in the accurate Arrian that Thais had any share in this transaction. Arrian, but more so Aristobulus, endeavored to exculpate Alexander from the charge of frequent ebriety; but Menander plainly mentions the drunkenness of Alexander as proverbial."

20.Furies.The Eumenides, or avengers of evil. They are variously represented by the poets. Æschylus describes them as having black bodies, hair composed of twining snakes, and eyes dripping with blood.

21.Grecian ghosts.The spirits of the Greek warriors in Alexander's army who had been slain by the Persians.

22.crew.This word was formerly used to designate any associated multitude or assemblage of persons. It is now restricted to a ship's company, except when occasionally used in a bad sense. From A.-S.creadorcruth, a crowd.

23.Thais led the way, etc.See note19, above. Neither Thais nor Helen actually fired any city. What the poet means to say is that, as Helen was the cause of the destruction of Troy, so Thais instigated the burning of Persepolis.

24.organs.The wordorganoriginally denoted but a single pipe, and hence the older English writers, when referring to the complete instrument, generally used the word in the plural number. "Father Schmidt and other famous organ-builders flourished in the latter part of the seventeenth century. The organ in Temple Church, London, was built by Schmidt in Charles II.'s time."

25.vocal frame.The organ—the grand instrument of church music—so perfect that it may literally be said to speak. See introductory note to Pope's "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," page153.

26.St. Cecilia, according to the story in the "Golden Legend," was under the immediate protection of an angel. But it was not her sweet playing, but her spotless purity, that brought the angel to earth, not to listen, but to be "a heavenly guard."

Compare these last four lines with those at the close of Pope's Ode.

Dr. Warton says of "Alexander's Feast": "If Dryden had never written anything but this ode, his name would have been immortal, as would that of Gray, if he had never written anything but his 'Bard.' It is difficult to find new terms to express our admiration of the variety, richness, and melody of its numbers; the force, beauty, and distinctness of its images; the succession of so many different passions and feelings; and the matchless perspicuity of its diction. No particle of it can be wished away, but the epigrammatic turn of the four concluding lines."

Hallam says: "This ode has a few lines mingled with a far greater number ill conceived and ill expressed; the whole composition has that spirit which Dryden hardly ever wanted, but it is too faulty for high praise. It used to pass for the best work of Dryden and the best ode in the language. But few lines are highly poetical, and some sink to the level of a common drinking song. It has the defects as well as the merits of that poetry which is written for musical accompaniment."

Such was the rise of this prodigious fire,1Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred,From thence did soon to open streets aspire,And straight to palaces and temples spread.The diligence of trades, and noiseful gain,And luxury, more late, asleep were laid;All was the Night's, and in her silent reignNo sound the rest of Nature did invade.In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,2Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose;And first few scattering sparks about were blown,Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.Then in some close-pent room it crept along,And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed;Till the infant monster, with devouring strong,Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head.Now, like some rich or mighty murderer,Too great for prison which he breaks with gold,Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,And dares the world to tax him with the old,So scapes the insulting fire his narrow jail,And makes small outlets into open air;There the fierce winds his tender force assail,And beat him downward to his first repair.The winds, like crafty courtesans, withheldHis flames from burning but to blow them more:And, every fresh attempt, he is repell'dWith faint denials, weaker than before.And now, no longer letted3of his prey,He leaps up at it with enraged desire,O'erlooks the neighbors with a wide survey,And nods at every house his threatening fire.The ghosts of traitors from the Bridge4descend,With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice;About the fire into a dance they bend,And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice.Our guardian angel saw them where they sate,Above the palace of our slumbering King;He sighed, abandoning his charge to Fate,And drooping oft look'd back upon the wing.At length the crackling noise and dreadful blazeCall'd up some waking lover to the sight;And long it was ere he the rest could raise,Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.The next to danger, hot pursued by fate,Half-clothed, half-naked, hastily retire;And frighted mothers strike their breasts too lateFor helpless infants left amidst the fire.Their cries soon waken all the dwellers near;Now murmuring noises rise in every street;The more remote run stumbling with their fear,And in the dark men justle as they meet.So weary bees in little cells repose;But if night-robbers lift the well-stored hive,An humming through their waxen city grows,And out upon each other's wings they drive.5Now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day;Some run for buckets to the hallow'd quire;Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play,And some more bold mount ladders to the fire.In vain; for from the east a Belgian windHis hostile breath through the dry rafters sent;The flames impell'd soon left their foes behind,And forward with a wanton fury went.A key6of fire ran all along the shore,And lighten'd all the river with a blaze;The waken'd tides began again to roar,And wondering fish in shining waters gaze.Old Father Thames rais'd up his reverend head,But fear'd the fate of Simois7would return;Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed,And shrank his waters back into his urn.The fire meantime walks in a broader gross;8To either hand his wings he opens wide;He wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross,And plays his longing flames on the other side.At first they warm, then scorch, and then they take;Now with long necks from side to side they feed;At length, grown strong, their mother-fire forsake,And a new colony of flames succeed.To every nobler portion of the townThe curling billows roll their restless tide;In parties now they straggle up and down,As armies unopposed for prey divide.One mighty squadron, with a sidewind sped,Through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste,By powerful charms of gold and silver ledThe Lombard bankers and the Change to waste.Another backward to the Tower would go,And slowly eats his way against the wind;But the main body of the marching foeAgainst the imperial palace is design'd.Now day appears; and with the day the King,Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest;Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smokeWith gloomy pillars cover all the place;Whose little intervals of night are brokeBy sparks that drive against his sacred face.More than his guards his sorrows made him known,And pious tears which down his cheeks did shower;The wretched in his grief forgot their own;So much the pity of a king has power.He wept the flames of what he lov'd so well,And what so well had merited his love;For never prince in grace did more excel,Or royal city more in duty strove.

Such was the rise of this prodigious fire,1Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred,From thence did soon to open streets aspire,And straight to palaces and temples spread.

The diligence of trades, and noiseful gain,And luxury, more late, asleep were laid;All was the Night's, and in her silent reignNo sound the rest of Nature did invade.

In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,2Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose;And first few scattering sparks about were blown,Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.

Then in some close-pent room it crept along,And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed;Till the infant monster, with devouring strong,Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head.

Now, like some rich or mighty murderer,Too great for prison which he breaks with gold,Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,And dares the world to tax him with the old,

So scapes the insulting fire his narrow jail,And makes small outlets into open air;There the fierce winds his tender force assail,And beat him downward to his first repair.

The winds, like crafty courtesans, withheldHis flames from burning but to blow them more:And, every fresh attempt, he is repell'dWith faint denials, weaker than before.

And now, no longer letted3of his prey,He leaps up at it with enraged desire,O'erlooks the neighbors with a wide survey,And nods at every house his threatening fire.

The ghosts of traitors from the Bridge4descend,With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice;About the fire into a dance they bend,And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice.

Our guardian angel saw them where they sate,Above the palace of our slumbering King;He sighed, abandoning his charge to Fate,And drooping oft look'd back upon the wing.

At length the crackling noise and dreadful blazeCall'd up some waking lover to the sight;And long it was ere he the rest could raise,Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.

The next to danger, hot pursued by fate,Half-clothed, half-naked, hastily retire;And frighted mothers strike their breasts too lateFor helpless infants left amidst the fire.

Their cries soon waken all the dwellers near;Now murmuring noises rise in every street;The more remote run stumbling with their fear,And in the dark men justle as they meet.

So weary bees in little cells repose;But if night-robbers lift the well-stored hive,An humming through their waxen city grows,And out upon each other's wings they drive.5

Now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day;Some run for buckets to the hallow'd quire;Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play,And some more bold mount ladders to the fire.

In vain; for from the east a Belgian windHis hostile breath through the dry rafters sent;The flames impell'd soon left their foes behind,And forward with a wanton fury went.

A key6of fire ran all along the shore,And lighten'd all the river with a blaze;The waken'd tides began again to roar,And wondering fish in shining waters gaze.

Old Father Thames rais'd up his reverend head,But fear'd the fate of Simois7would return;Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed,And shrank his waters back into his urn.

The fire meantime walks in a broader gross;8To either hand his wings he opens wide;He wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross,And plays his longing flames on the other side.

At first they warm, then scorch, and then they take;Now with long necks from side to side they feed;At length, grown strong, their mother-fire forsake,And a new colony of flames succeed.

To every nobler portion of the townThe curling billows roll their restless tide;In parties now they straggle up and down,As armies unopposed for prey divide.

One mighty squadron, with a sidewind sped,Through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste,By powerful charms of gold and silver ledThe Lombard bankers and the Change to waste.

Another backward to the Tower would go,And slowly eats his way against the wind;But the main body of the marching foeAgainst the imperial palace is design'd.

Now day appears; and with the day the King,Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest;Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.

Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smokeWith gloomy pillars cover all the place;Whose little intervals of night are brokeBy sparks that drive against his sacred face.

More than his guards his sorrows made him known,And pious tears which down his cheeks did shower;The wretched in his grief forgot their own;So much the pity of a king has power.

He wept the flames of what he lov'd so well,And what so well had merited his love;For never prince in grace did more excel,Or royal city more in duty strove.

This selection from Dryden's long and very tedious poem, "Annus Mirabilis, the year of Wonders, 1666," is given here as a specimen of that kind of mechanical versification so popular in the latter half of the seventeenth century. "That part of my poem which describes the Fire," says Dryden, "I owe first to the piety and fatherly affection of our monarch to his suffering subjects; and, in the second place, to the courage, loyalty, and magnanimity of the city; both of which were so conspicuous that I have wanted words to celebrate them as they deserve. And I have chosen to write my poem in quatrains or stanzas of four in alternate rhyme, because I have ever judged them more noble, and of greater dignity, both for the sound and number, than any other verse in use amongst us." This opinion, however, was certainly not long maintained by the poet, for he never afterward practised that form of versification which he has here praised.

1.this prodigious fire.A half sheet published immediately after the Great Fire contains this account of the catastrophe which Dryden describes in his verses:

"On Sunday, the second of September, this present year 1666, about one o'clock in the morning, there happened a sad and deplorable fire inPudding-lanenearNew Fish-street; which, falling out in a part of the city so close built with wooden houses . . . in a short time became too big to be mastered by any engines or working near it. . . . It continued all Monday and Tuesday with such impetuosity, that it consumed houses and churches all the way toSt. Dunstan's Church, inFleet-street; at which time, by the favour of God, the wind slackened; and that night, by the vigilancy, industry, and indefatigable pains of his Majesty and his Royal Highness, calling upon all people, and encouraging them by their personal assistances, a stop was put to the fire in Fleet-street, etc. But on Wednesday night it suddenly broke out afresh in theInner Temple. His Royal Highness in person fortunately watching there that night, by his care, diligence, great labour, and seasonable commands for the blowing up, with gunpowder, some of the said buildings, it was most happily before day extinguished."

2.source unknown."It was ascribed by the rage of the people either to the Republicans or the Catholics, especially the latter. An inscription on the monument, intended to perpetuate this groundless suspicion, was erased by James II., but restored at the Revolution."—Warton.

3.letted.Hindered. This use of the wordletis now obsolete, exceptin the phrase, "Without let or hindrance." It was frequently employed by the older writers.

"What lets but one may enter?"—Shakespeare.

4.the Bridge.The heads of traitors were displayed on London Bridge. "How inferior is this passage," says Dr. Dodd, "to Milton's animated description of the wild ceremonies of Moloch, which Dryden, however, seems to have here had in mind." See "Ode on the Nativity," stanza xxiii.

5.The simile in this stanza was doubtless intended to be very effective.

6.key.Quay. A bank, or ledge.

7.Simois.See Homer's "Iliad," Bk. XXI.

8.gross.Bulk.

Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and starsTo lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,Is Reason to the soul: and as on high,Those rolling fires discover but the sky,Not light us here; so Reason's glimmering rayWas lent, not to assure our doubtful way,But guide us upward to a better day.And as those nightly tapers disappear,When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere;So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight;So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.Some few whose light shone brighter, have been ledFrom cause to cause, to nature's secret head;And found that one first principle must be,But what, or who, that UniversalHe;Whether some soul incompassing this ball,Unmade, unmov'd, yet making, moving all,Or various atoms' interfering danceLeap'd into form, the noble work of chance,Or this great All was from eternity—Not even the Stagirite himself could see,And Epicurus guess'd as well as he;As blindly groped they for a future state,As rashly judged of providence and fate.In this wild maze their vain endeavors end:How can the less the greater comprehend?Or finite Reason reach Infinity?For what could fathom God were more than He.

John Drydenwas born on the 9th of August, 1631, at Aldwincle All Saints, near Oundle in Northamptonshire. He was educated at Westminster School, under the famous Dr. Busby, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. At the age of twenty-six he went up to London with the intention of devoting himself to literature and politics. During the brief remaining years of the Commonwealth (1657-1660) he was nominally a friend to the Puritan party; and one of the first poems written by him was a series of "Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Oliver Cromwell." At the Restoration he at once espoused the cause of the Royalists; and his recent panegyric on the Protector did not prevent him from writing a poem, "Astræa Redux," in honor of the return of Charles the Second. In 1663 he married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, a daughter of the Earl of Berkshire, a Royalist nobleman. For several years he devoted himself chiefly to the writing of plays,—comedies, tragedies, and tragi-comedies. The comedies he wrote in prose; the earliest tragedies in blank verse, followed by several in rhyme, and, after these, others in blank verse. In 1670 he was appointed Poet-Laureate. In 1681, when nearly fifty years old, by the publication of "Absalom and Achitophel," he suddenly became famous as a satirical poet. He soon afterwards wrote "The Medal," another satire, directed against the Earl of Shaftesbury, and "Mac Flecknoe," aimed at Shadwell, thechief poet of the Opposition. At about the same time he produced "Religio Laici," a didactic poem explaining his religious opinions and defending the Church of England against dissenters, atheists, and Catholics. Not long after the accession of James II., Dryden, true to his policy of being always on the side of the ruling party, became a Catholic, and wrote "The Hind and the Panther," in which he eulogized many things that, in the former poem, he had ridiculed. His political career ended with the overthrow of James II., in 1688; but his literary activity continued unabated. The last years of his life were occupied in translating the works of Persius and Juvenal and the Æneid of Virgil. In 1697 he wrote "Alexander's Feast"; and his "modernizations" of some of Chaucer's poems appeared in 1700, the year of his death.

"If there is grandeur in the pomp of kings and the march of hosts," says A. W. Ward, "in the 'trumpet's loud clangor' and in tapestries and carpetings of velvet and gold, Dryden is to be ranked with the grandest of English poets. The irresistible impetus of an invective which never falls short or flat, and the savor of a satire which never seems dull or stale, give him an undisputed place among the most glorious of English wits."

"His descriptive power was of the highest," says Hales. "Our literature has in it no more vigorous portrait-gallery than that he has bequeathed it. His power of expression is beyond praise. There is always a singularfitnessin his language: he uses always the right word. He is one of our greatest masters of metre: metre was, in fact, no restraint to him, but rather it seems to have given him freedom. It has been observed that he argues better in verse than in prose; verse was the natural costume of his thoughts."

Professor Masson says: "Not only is Dryden the largest figure in one era of our literature: he is a very considerable figure also in our literature as a whole. Of all that he wrote, however, there is but a comparatively small portion that has won for itself a permanent place in our literature."

Other Poems to be Read:Absalom and Achitophel; Mac Flecknoe; Religio Laici; Threnodia Augustalis.

References:Johnson'sLives of the Poets; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets; Lowell'sAmong My Books; Macaulay'sEssay on John Dryden; Taine'sEnglish Literature; Masson'sThree Devils and Other Essays; Thackeray'sEnglish Humorists.

This is the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heav'ns eternal King,Of wedded Maid and Virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring:For so the holy Sages once did sing:That he our deadly forfeit should release,1And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

The glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,Wherewith he wont2at Heav'ns high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.3

Say, heav'nly muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn streinTo welcome him to this his new abodeNow while the Heav'n by the suns team untrodHath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far upon the eastern rodeThe star-led Wisards4haste with odours sweet;O run, prevent5them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quire,6From out his secret altar toucht with hallow'd fire.

It was the winter wildeWhile the Heav'n-born childeAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in aw of himHad doff't her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun her lusty paramour.7

Onely with speeches fairShe woo's the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinfull blame,The saintly veil of maiden8white to throw:Confounded that her Makers eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphear,9His ready harbinger,10With turtle11wing the amorous clouds dividing,And, waving wide her mirtle wand,She strikes a universall peace12through sea and land.

No war, or battails sound,Was heard the world around;The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hooked chariot13stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sate still with awfull eye,14As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peacefull was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis raign of peace upon the earth began;The windes, with wonder whist,15Smoothly the waters kist,Whispering new joyes to the milde ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fixt in stedfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence,16And will not take their flightFor17all the morning lightOr Lucifer18that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady GloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferiour flameThe new-enlightn'd world no more should need;He saw a greater sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axle-tree19could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn20Or ere21the point of dawnSate simply chatting in a rustick row;Full little thought they thanThat the mighty Pan22Was kindly com to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly23thoughts so busie keep.

When such musick sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortall finger strook,24Divinely warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise25As all their souls in blissfull rapture took;The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close.26

Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow round27Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was don,And that her raign had here its28last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-fac't Night array'd;The helmed Cherubim,29The sworded SeraphimAre seen in glittering ranks with wings displaied,Harping in loud and solemn quireWith unexpressive30notes to Heav'n's new-born Heir.

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