ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Aphra Behn, "On the Death of E. Waller, Esq." Poems to the Memory of that incomparable Poet Edmond Waller (1688) 17-20.
1655 ca.: Charles Cotton
1667: Sir William Temple
1670 ca.: Lord Clarendon
1673: Richard Flecknoe
1678: Thomas Rymer
1680: Earl of Rochester
1683: John Dryden
1688: Aphra Behn
1688: Bevil Higgons
1688: Sir John Cotton
1688: Thomas Rymer
1693: J. Talbot
1694: Joseph Addison
1699: Charles Gildon
1700: Samuel Cobb
1700 ca.: John Hughes
1710 ca.: Gilbert Burnet
1712: Bezaleel Morrice
1713: Rev. Henry Felton
1720: Giles Jacob
1721: Judith Cowper Madan
1721: Mr. B.
1721: Mr. Johnson
1728: James Ralph
1728: Jane Brereton
1735: Mary Barber
1744: Dr. Mark Akenside
1746: Edmund Burke
1761: Rev. Charles Churchill
1769: Daniel Hayes
1774: Rev. Robert Potter
1776: Oliver Goldsmith
1776: John Nichols
1782: Rev. Joseph Warton
1787: Samuel Jackson Pratt
1789: Philip Neve
1789: Edmond Malone
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1800: Dr. Nathan Drake
1802: George Dyer
1803: George Dyer
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1807: Robert Southey
1812: William Henry Ireland
1818: William Hazlitt
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1826: Richard Ryan
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1842: C. H. Timperley
1851: Leigh Hunt
1880: Edmund Gosse
1882: Epes Sargent
1688: Edmund Waller
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives,
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine;
And am Inspir'd by every charming Line.
What Inspiration, at the second hand,
Can an Immortal Elegie Command?
Unless, like Pious Offerings, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those Trophies that adorn thy Hearse.
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young;
The Wit Sublime, the Judgment Fine, and Strong;
Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung.
Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay,
That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day.
Such Tributes are, like Tenures, only fit
To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit.
Hail, wondrous Bard, whose Heav'n-born Genius first
My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nurst.
With thy soft Food of Love I first began,
Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain,
Numbers Seraphic! and, at every View,
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
Where e're I Read, new Raptures seiz'd my Blood;
Methought I heard the Language of a God.
Long did the untun'd World in Ign'rance stray,
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,
Till taught, by thee, the true Poetick way.
Rough were the Tracks before, Dull, and Obscure;
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction, could procure.
Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move;
Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love:
That Charming God, like Apparitions, then
Was only talk'd on, but ne're seen by Men:
Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid,
And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid.
Till, by thee rescu'd from th' Egyptian Night,
They now look up, and view the God of Light,
That taught them how to Love, and how to Write;
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent,
When for our great Instructor thou wert sent.
Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;
And, like the Sun, did still dispense thy Power,
Producing something wondrous every hour:
And, in thy Circulary Course, didst see
The very Life and Death of Poetry.
Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie,
None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony;
The World being grown to that low Ebb of Sense,
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
And no Encouragement to Prophets shewn,
Who in past Ages got so great Renown.
Though Fortune Elevated thee above
Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love;
Yet, sullen with the World, untir'd by Age,
Scorning th' unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage.