Progress of Beauty.

The beauty, which inspired the romantic and unchanging admiration of Granville, may be allowed to justify some of the flights of Dryden’s panegyric.  I fear enough will still remain to justify the stricture of Johnson, who observes, that Dryden’s dedication is an “attempt to mingle earth and heaven, by praising human excellence in the language of religion.”

   At the date of this address, the Duchess of York was only in her
   sixteenth year.

Footnote: 
a.  He had written verses to the Earl of Peterborough, on the Duke
of York’s marriage with the Princess of Modena, before he was
twelve years old.

TO

MR DRYDEN,

ON HIS

POEM OF PARADISE.

Forgive me, awful poet, if a muse,
Whom artless nature did for plainness chuse,
In loose attire presents her humble thought,
Of this best poem that you ever wrought. 
This fairest labour of your teeming brain
I would embrace, but not with flatt’ry stain. 
Something I would to your vast virtue raise,
But scorn to daub it with a fulsome praise;
That would but blot the work I would commend,
And shew a court-admirer, not a friend. 
To the dead bard your fame a little owes,
For Milton did the wealthy mine disclose,
And rudely cast what you could well dispose: 
He roughly drew, on an old fashioned ground,
A chaos; for no perfect world was found,
Till through the heap your mighty genius shined: 
He was the golden ore, which you refined. 
He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid,
And to a place of strength the prize conveyed: 
You took her thence; to court this virgin brought,
Drest her with gems, new weaved her hard-spun thought,
And softest language sweetest manners taught;
Till from a comet she a star doth rise,
Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes. 
Betwixt you both is trained a nobler piece,
Than e’er was drawn in Italy or Greece. 
Thou from his source of thoughts even souls dost bring,
As smiling gods from sullen Saturn spring. 
When night’s dull mask the face of heaven does wear,
’Tis doubtful light, but here and there a star,
Which serves the dreadful shadows to display,
That vanish at the rising of the day;
But then bright robes the meadows all adorn,
And the world looks as it were newly born. 
So, when your sense his mystic reason cleared,
The melancholy scene all gay appeared;
Now light leapt up, and a new glory smiled,
And all throughout was mighty, all was mild. 
Before this palace, which thy wit did build,
Which various fancy did so gaudy gild,
And judgment has with solid riches filled,
My humbler muse begs she may sentry stand,
Amongst the rest that guard this Eden land. 
But there’s no need, for ev’n thy foes conspire
Thy praise, and, hating thee, thy work admire.