THE ADDRESS OF John Dryden, LAUREAT TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Prince of Orange.
IN all the
Hosannas, our whole World's applause,
Illustrious Champion of our Church and Laws,
Accept, great
Nassau, from unworthy me,
Amongst the adoring Crowd, a bended Knee;
Nor scruple, Sir, to hear my Ecchoing Lyre,
Strung, tun'd, and joyn'd to th' Universal Quire:
For my suspected Mouth thy Glories told,
A known Out-lyer from the
English Fold,
[Page 2]
Rome's Votary, the Protestants sworn Foe,
Rome my Religion half an hour ago▪
My
Roman Dagon's by thy Arm o'rethrown,
And now my Prostituted Soul's thy own:
Thy Glory could convert that Infidel
That had whole Ages stood immovable
No wonder then thou could'st Affections sway
In tender Breasts, like mine, such plyant Clay,
As cou'd even bear new moulding every day;
Nor doubt thy Convert true, I who cou'd raise
Immortal Trophies, even to
Cromwell's Praise;
I who my Muses Infant Quill could fledge,
With high-sung Murder, Treason, Sacriledge.
A Martyr'd Monarch and an inslav'd Nation,
A Kingdoms shame the whole Worlds Execration,
By me translated even to a Constellation.
If thus all this I cou'd unblushing write,
Fear not that Pen that shall thy Praise indite▪
When High-born Blood my Adoration draws,
Exalted Glory and unblemish'd Cause:
A Theme so all Divine my Muse shall wing,
What is't for thee, great Prince, I will not sing?
No Bounds shall stop my
Pegasean flight,
He spot my Hind, and make my Panther white.
[Page 3] Against the Seven proud Hills I'le Muster all
My Keen Poetick Rage, and Rhime with all
The Vengeance of a Second
Hannibal.
The Papal Chair by dint of Verse o'return,
My Molten Gods, like
Israel's Calf, I'le burn.
Copes, Crosiers, all the Trumpery of
Rome,
Down to great
Waller's blazing Hecatomb.
I'le pound my Beads to Dust, and wear no more
Those Pagan Bracelets of the Scarlet Whore.
But whither am I wrapt! for oh my Fears!
I bend beneath the weight of Sixty years;
Low runs my Glass, more low my aged Muse,
And to my Will, alas! does Pow'r refuse.
But if, Great Prince, my feeble Strength shall fail,
Thy Theme I'le to my Successors entail;
My Heirs th'unfinish'd Subject shall compleat:
I have a Son, and He, by all that's Great,
That very Son (and trust my Oaths, I swore
As much to my Great Master
Iames before),
Shall by his Sire's Example,
Rome renounce,
For he, young Stripling, yet has turn'd but once.
That
Oxford Nursling, that sweet hopeful Boy,
His Father's, and that once
Ignatian Joy;
[Page 4] Design'd for a new
Bellarmin Goliah,
Under the great
Gamaliel Obadiah.
This Youth, Great
Sir, shall your Fames Trumpet blow,
And Soar when my dull Wings shall flag below.
A Protestant
Herculean Column stand
When I, a poor weak Pillar of the Land,
Now growing Old, and crumbling into Sand.
But hark! methinks, I hear the buzzing Crowd
At my Conversion dare to Laugh aloud.
Let censuring Fops, and snarling Envy grin,
Tickled and pleas'd with my
Camelion Skin.
No senseless Fools my true Dimensions scan,
And know the
Lawreat's a
Leviathan.
Now
Tiber's Mouth Ebbs low, and on that Shore▪
My rowling Bulk, alas, can Sport no more:
Down the full Tide I scour, to take a loose
In the more swelling Surge of
Helvert Sluce.
Let Chattering Daws, and every senseless Widgeon,
Their Descant pass on that great Name,
Religion.
Religion, by true Polititian Rules,
The Wise man's Strength, and the weak Pride of Fools.
[Page 5] For we, who Godliness for gain, support
Heavens Votaries for Candidates at Court,
Makes our Churchwalls, our Rampart, Sconce and Fort.
Our
Masses, Dirges, Vespers, Orisons,
Our Counterscarps, our Rav'lins, and half Moons.
And now our
Ave Mary's put to th'rout,
And from that Bastion I am beaten out,
I'm but retiring to a new Redoubt.
Why should I blush to turn, when my Defence
And Plea's so plain? For if Omnipotence
Be th' highest Attribute that Heav'n can boast,
That's the tru'st Church, that Heav'n resembles most.
The Tables then are turn'd; and 'tis confest
The Strongest and the Mightiest is the Best.
In all my Changes I'm on the Right side,
And by the same great Reason justifi'd.
When the bold
Crescent lately attacqu'd the
Cross,
Resolv'd the Empire of the World t'engross,
Had tottering
Vienna's Walls but fail'd,
And
Turkey over
Christendom prevail'd,
Long e're this I had cross'd the
Dardanello,
And sate the Mighty
Mahomet's Hail Fellow,
[Page 6] Quitting my duller Hopes, the poor Renown
Of
Eaton-College, or a
Dublin-Gown,
And commenc'd Graduate in the Great
Divan,
Had reign'd a more Immortal
Musselman.
No Art, Pain, Labour, Toil, too much t'assail
Heav'ns Tow'ry Battlements. By Heav'n I'd sail
Through all Religions, Church o'r Churches mounted,
More than the Rounds that
Iacob's Ladder counted.
Has this stupendious Revolution past
A Change so quick, and I not turn as fast?
Let bogling Conscience shock the squeamish Fool,
Poor crazy Animals, whose Stomachs pule.
Shall scrup'lous Test disgust their Paschal stickle,
Whether true dress'd, in Souse, in Broth, or Pickle?
If
Muscadine runs low, I'm not so dull,
But I can pledge Salvation in
Lambs-Wool:
And if Salvation to One Church is bound,
So much the rather would I change all round.
Change then can be no fault; a whole Life long
Kept in One Church, may always be i'th' wrong:
But there where Conscience circles in her flight,
He who's of all Sides, must be once i'th' right.
FINIS.