of the public, notwithstanding the want of morality in the original design, and the despicable scenes of vile comedy with which he has diversified his tragic action. By comparing this with his Orphan, it will appear that his images were by time become stronger, and his language more energetic. The striking passages are in every mouth; and the public seems to judge rightly of the faults and excellencies of this play, that it is the work of a man not attentive to decency, nor zealous for virtue; but of one who conceived forcibly, and drew originally, by consulting Nature in his own breast. Together with those plays he wrote the poems which are in the present collection, and translated from the French the History of the Triumvirate. All this was performed before he was thirty-four years old; for he died April 14, 1685, in a manner which I am unwilling to mention. Having been compelled by his necessities to contract debts, and hunted, as is supposed, by the terriers of the law, he retired to a public-house on Tower-hill, where he is said to have died of want; or, as it is related by one of his biographers, by swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. He went out, as is reported, almost naked, in the rage of hunger, and, finding a gentleman in a neighbouring coffee-house, asked him for a shilling. The gentleman gave him a guinea; and Otway going away bought a roll, and was choked with the first mouthful. All this, I hope, is not true; and there is this ground of better hope, that Pope, who lived near enough to be well informed, relates in Spence's Memorials, that he died of a fever caught by violent pursuit of a thief, that had robbed one of his friends. But that indigence, and its concomitants, sorrow and despondency, pressed hard upon him, has never been denied, whatever immediate cause might bring him to the grave. Of the poems which the present collection admits, the longest is the Poet's Complaint of his Muse, part of which I do not understand; and in that which is less obscure I find little to commend. The language is often gross, and the numbers are harsh. Otway had not much cultivated versification, nor much replenished his mind with general knowledge. His principal power was in moving the passions, to which Dryden' in his latter years left an illustrious testimony. He appears by some of his verses to have been a zealous loyalist, and had what was in those times the common reward of loyalty he lived and died neglected. In his preface to Fresnoy's Art of Painting. Dr. J. POEMS OP THOMAS OTWAY. But, having spoil'd the edge of ill-forg'd law, And watch'd what haste we did to ruin make; For gods have power to keep the balance even, Mercy 's indeed the attribute of Heaven, To the immortal fame of our late dread sovereign king Charles II. of ever blessed memory; and to the sacred majesty of the most august and mighty prince James II. now by the grace of God king of England, Scotland, France, and And round the throne themselves in tumults spread, Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. this follow-To heave the crown from a long-sufferer's head. ing poem is in all humility dedicated by his ever devoted and obedient subject and servant, THо THO. OTWAY. HOUGH poets immortality may give, By example this that godlike king once knew, Then matrons bless'd him as he pass'd along, Slow to condemn, nor partial to commend, The brave man's patron, and the wrong'd man's friend. Now justly seated on th' imperial throne, In which high sphere no brighter star e'er shone: And could with ease direct the heavy weight. Through all this isle, where it seems most design'd, 1 Left beauteous Quiet, that kind, tender wife, That dark enigma (yet unriddled) Law, [shores, But that good angel, whose surmounting power Waited great Charles in each emergent hour, Against whose care Hell vainly did decree, Nor faster could design than that foresee, Guarding the crown upon his sacred brow From all its blackest arts, was with him now, Assur'd him peace must be for him design'd, For he was born to give it all mankind; By patience, mercies large, and many toils, In his own realms to caim intestine broils, Thence every root of discord to remove, And plant us new with unity and love; Then stretch his healing hands to neighbouring Where Slaughter rages, and wild Rapine roars; To cool their ferments with the charms of Peace, Who, so their madness and their rage might cease, Grow all (embracing what such friendship brings) Like us the people, and like him their kings. But now (alas!) in the sad grave he lies, [it rise. Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from For this assurance pious thanks he paid; Then in his mind the beauteous model laid Of that majestic pile, where oft, his care A-while forgot, he might for ease repair: A seat for sweet retirement, health, and love, Britain's Olympus, where, like awful Jove, He pleas'd could sit, and his regards bestow On the vain, busy, swarming world below. E'en I, the meanest of those humble swains, Who sang his praises through the fertile plains, Once in a happy hour was thither led, Curious to see what Fame so far had spread. There tell, my Muse, what wonders thou didst find Worthy thy song and his celestial mind. "Twas at that joyful hallow'd day's return, On which that man of miracles was born, At whose great birth appear'd a noon-day star, Which prodigy foretold yet many more; Did strange escapes from dreadful Fate declare, Nor shin'd, but for one greater king before. Though now (alas!) in the sad grave he lies, [rise. Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it For this great day were equal joys prepar'd, The voice of Triumph on the hills was heard; Redoubled shoutings wak'd the Echoes round, And cheerful bowls with loyal vows were crown'd. But, above all, within those lofty towers, Where glorious Charles then spent his happy hours, Joy wore a solemn, though a smiling face; 'Twas gay, but yet majestic, as the place; Tell then, my Muse, what wonders thou didst find Worthy thy song and his celestial mind. Within a gate of strength, whose ancient frame Has outworn Time, and the records of Fame, A reverend dome there stands, where twice each Assembling prophets their devotions pay, [day In prayers and hymns to Heaven's eternal King, The cornet, flute, and shawme, assisting as they sing St. George's Church. Here Israel's mystic statutes they recount, Within this dome a shining chapel's rais'd, A threatening rod did his dread right hand poize, This courteous 'squire, observing how amaz'd Which here their heroes with Religion make, I turn'd around my eyes, and, lo, a cell 4, And happy that man's chance who falls in time, Ere yet his virtue be become his crime; Ere his abus'd desert be call'd his pride, Or fools and villains on his ruin ride. But truly blest is he, whose soul can bear The wrongs of Fate, nor think them worth his care: Whose mind no disappointment here can shake, Who a true estimate of life does make, Knows 'tis uncertain, frail, and will have end, Beyond the dome a lofty towers appears, But now appears the beauteous seat? of Peace, Large of extent, and fit for goodly ease; Where noble order strikes the greedy sight With wonder, as it fills it with delight; The massy walls seem, as the womb of Earth, Shrunk when such mighty quarries thence had birth; Or by the Theban founder they'd been rais'd, And in his powerful numbers should be prais'd: Such strength without does every where abound, Within such glory and such splendour 's found, As man's united skill had there combin'd T'express what one great genius had design'd. Thus, when the happy world Augustus sway'd, Knowledge was cherish'd, and improvement made; Learning and arts his empire did adorn, Nor did there one neglected virtue mourn; But, at his call, from furthest nations came, While the immortal Muses gave him fame. Though when her far-stretch'd empire flourish'd most, Rome never yet a work like this could boast: No Cæsar e'er like Charles his pomp express'd, Nor ever were his nations half so blest: Though now (alas!) in the sad grave he lies, Yet shall his praise for ever live, and laurels from it rise. Here, as all Nature's wealth to court him prest, Seem'd to attend him Plenty, Peace, and Rest. Through all the lofty roofs 8 describ'd we find The toils and triumphs of his god-like mind: A theme that might the noblest fancy warm, And only fit for his who did perform. The walls adorn'd with richest woven gold, Equal to what in temples shin'd of old, Grac'd well the lustre of his royal ease, Whose empire reach'd throughout the wealthy seas; Ease which he wisely chose, when raging arms Kept neighbouring nations waking with alarms: • The castle. 6 The duke of Norfolk, constable of Windsor Castle. 7 The house. The paintings done by the Sieur Verrio, his majesty's chief painter. |