Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden
John Dryden (16311700)Extracts from Annus Mirabilis: The Fire of London
S
Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred,
From thence did soon to open streets aspire,
And straight to palaces and temples spread.
And luxury, more late, asleep were laid;
All was the Night’s, and in her silent reign
No sound the rest of Nature did invade.
Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose;
And first few scattering sparks about were blown,
Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.
And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed;
Till the infant monster, with devouring strong,
Walked boldly upright with exalted head.
Too great for prison which he breaks with gold,
Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,
And dares the world to tax him with the old,
And makes small outlets into open air;
There the fierce winds his tender force assail,
And beat him downward to his first repair.
His flames from burning but to blow them more:
And, every fresh attempt, he is repelled
With faint denials, weaker than before.
He leaps up at it with enraged desire,
O’erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey,
And nods at every house his threatening fire.
With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice;
About the fire into a dance they bend,
And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice.
Above the palace of our slumbering King;
He sighed, abandoning his charge to Fate,
And drooping oft looked back upon the wing.
Called up some waking lover to the sight;
And long it was ere he the rest could raise,
Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.
Half-clothed, half-naked, hastily retire;
And frighted mothers strike their breasts too late
For helpless infants left amidst the fire.
Now murmuring noises rise in every street;
The more remote run stumbling with their fear,
And in the dark men justle as they meet.
But if night-robbers lift the well-stored hive,
An humming through their waxen city grows,
And out upon each other’s wings they drive.
Some run for buckets to the hallowed quire;
Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play,
And some more bold mount ladders to the fire.
His hostile breath through the dry rafters sent;
The flames impelled soon left their foes behind,
And forward with a wanton fury went.
And lightened all the river with a blaze;
The wakened tides began again to roar,
And wondering fish in shining waters gaze.
But feared the fate of Simois would return;
Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed,
And shrank his waters back into his urn.
To either hand his wings he opens wide;
He wades the streets, and straight he reaches ’cross,
And plays his longing flames on the other side.
Now with long necks from side to side they feed;
At length, grown strong, their mother-fire forsake,
And a new colony of flames succeed.
The curling billows roll their restless tide;
In parties now they straggle up and down,
As armies unopposed for prey divide.
Through narrow lanes his cumbered fire does haste,
By powerful charms of gold and silver led
The Lombard bankers and the Change to waste.
And slowly eats his way against the wind;
But the main body of the marching foe
Against the imperial palace is designed.
Whose early care had robbed him of his rest;
Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,
And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.
With gloomy pillars cover all the place;
Whose little intervals of night are broke
By sparks that drive against his sacred face.
And pious tears which down his cheeks did shower;
The wretched in his grief forgot their own;
So much the pity of a king has power.
And what so well had merited his love;
For never prince in grace did more excel,
Or royal city more in duty strove.