Volume II Part 21 (1/2)

She was a great proficient in the art of painting, and drew King James II, and his Queen; which pieces are also highly applauded by Mr.

Dryden. She drew several history pieces, also some portraits for her diversion, exceeding well, and likewise some pieces of still life.

Those engaging and polite accomplishments were the least of her perfections; for she crowned all with an exemplary piety, and unblemished virtue. She was one of the maids of honour to the d.u.c.h.ess of York, and died of the small-pox in the very flower of her age, to the unspeakable grief of her relations and acquaintance, on the 16th day of June 1685, in her 25th year.

On this occasion, Mr. Dryden's muse put on a mournful habit, and in one of the most melting elegiac odes that ever was written, has consigned her to immortality.

In the eighth stanza he does honour to another female character, whom he joins with this sweet poetess.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth, the much lamented virgin lies!

Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel destiny content To finish all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life, and beauty too; But like a hardened felon took a pride To work more mischievously flow, And plundered first, and then destroy'd.

O! double sacrilege, on things divine, To rob the relique, and deface the shrine!

But thus Orinda died;

Heav'n by the same disease did both translate, As equal was their souls, so equal was their fate.

Miss Killegrew was buried in the chancel of St. Baptist's chapel in the Savoy hospital, on the North side of which is a very neat monument of marble and free-stone fixed in the wall, with a Latin inscription, a translation of which into English is printed before her poems.

The following verses of Miss Killegrew's were addressed to Mrs.

Philips.

Orinda (Albion, and her s.e.x's grace) Ow'd not her glory to a beauteous face.

It was her radiant soul that shone within, Which struck a l.u.s.tre thro' her outward skin; That did her lips and cheeks with roses dye, Advanc'd her heighth, and sparkled in her eye.

Nor did her s.e.x at all obstruct her fame.

But high'r 'mongst the stars it fixt her name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But evr'y laurel, to her laurel bow'd!

Soon after her death, her Poems were published in a large thin quarto, to which Dryden's ode in praise of the author is prefixed.

Footnote: 1. Ballard's Memoirs of Learned Ladies.

NAT. LEE.

This eminent dramatic poet was the son of a clergyman of the church of England, and was educated at Westminster school under Dr. Busby. After he left this school, he was some time at Trinity College, Cambridge; whence returning to London, he went upon the stage as an actor.

Very few particulars are preserved concerning Mr. Lee. He died before he was 34 years of age, and wrote eleven tragedies, all of which contain the divine enthusiasm of a poet, a n.o.ble fire and elevation, and the tender breathings of love, beyond many of his cotemporaries.

He seems to have been born to write for the Ladies; none ever felt the pa.s.sion of love more intimately, none ever knew to describe it more gracefully, and no poet ever moved the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his audience with stronger palpitations, than Lee. The excellent Mr. Addison, whose opinion in a matter of this sort, is of the greatest weight, speaking of the genius of Lee, thus proceeds[1]. ”Among our modern English poets, there is none who was better turned for tragedy than our author; if instead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he had restrained it, and kept it within proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited for tragedy; but frequently lost in such a cloud of words, that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, that it does not appear in half its l.u.s.tre. He frequently succeeds in the pa.s.sionate part of the tragedy; but more particularly where he slackens his efforts, and eases the stile of those epithets and metaphors in which he so much abounds.”

It is certain that our author for some time was deprived of his senses, and was confined in Bedlam; and as Langbaine observes, it is to be regretted, that his madness exceeded that divine fury which Ovid mentions, and which usually accompany the best poets.

Est Deus in n.o.bus agitante calescimus illo.

His condition in Bedlam was far worse; in a Satire on the Poets it is thus described,

There in a den remov'd from human eyes, Possest with muse, the brain-sick poet lies, Too miserably wretched to be nam'd; For plays, for heroes, and for pa.s.sion fam'd: Thoughtless he raves his sleepless hours away In chains all night, in darkness all the day.