In the author's preface Dryden acknowledges his debt generously enough:--
"The original being undoubtedly, one of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems, which either this age or nation has produced."
_Lucifer_: Is this the seat our conqueror has given? And this the climate we must change for Heaven? These regions and this realm my wars have got; This mournful empire is the loser's lot: In liquid burnings, or on dry to dwell, Is all the sad variety of hell.
It is an early work; it is on the whole a feeble work; it is not deserving of sustained comparison with "Paradise Lost." But "all the sad variety of hell"! Dryden is already stirring; he has assimilated what he could from Milton; and he has shown himself capable of producing as splendid verse.
The capacity for assimilation, and the consequent extent of range, are conspicuous qualities of Dryden. He advanced and exhibited his variety by constant translation; and his translations of Horace, of Ovid, of Lucretius, are admirable. His gravest defects are supposed to be displayed in his dramas, but if these were more read they might be more praised. From the point of view of either the Elizabethan or the French drama they are obviously inferior; but the charge of inferiority loses part of its force if we admit that Dryden was not quite trying to compete with either, but was pursuing a direction of his own. He created no character; and although his arrangements of plot manifest exceptional ingenuity, it is the pure magnificence of diction, of poetic diction, that keeps his plays alive:--
How I loved Witness ye days and nights, and all ye hours, That danced away with down upon your feet, As all your business were to count my passion. One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;-- Another came, and still 'twas only love: The suns were wearied out with looking on, And I untired with loving. I saw you every day and all the day; And every day was still but as the first: So eager was I still to see you more . . .
While within your arms I lay, The world fell mould'ring from my hands each hour.
Such language is pure Dryden: it sounds, in Mr. van Doren's phrase, "like a gong." _All for Love_, from which the lines are taken, is Dryden's best play, and this is perhaps the highest reach. In general, he is best in his plays when dealing with situations which do not demand great emotional concentration; when his situation is more trivial, and he can practise his art of making the small great. The back-talk between the Emperor and his Empress Nourmahal, in _Aurungzebe_ is admirable purple comedy:--