Poem of the Week – Beneath a Myrtle Shade by John Dryden

John Dryden’s dusty legacy belies his literary significance. The undisputed premier poet of the second half of the 17th century, the era in which he wrote came to be known as “the age of Dryden”. Heavily influencing his similarly prodigious younger contemporary, Alexander Pope, TS Eliot once said, “Dryden is the ancestor of nearly all that is best in the poetry of the eighteenth century.”

After pioneering the use and execution of the heroic couplet in epic poems and popular plays, Dryden was the first officially appointed Poet Laureate. In that role, he composed numerous celebratory odes for coronations, battles and anniversaries and steered the stylistic and structural course of English literature for decades to come.

This week’s poem is a sensual extract from one of Dryden’s poetic plays, The Conquest of Granada. In it, the speaker recounts a romantic dream in which he encounters a beautiful virgin.

We hope you enjoy this week’s poem as much as we did.

Beneath a Myrtle Shade

(From The Conquest of Granada, 1671)

Beneath a Myrtle shade,
Which Love for none but happy Lovers made,
I slept, and straight my Love before me brought
Phillis, the object of my walking thought;
Undressed she came, my flames to meet,
While Love strow’d flowers beneath her feet:
Flowers, which so press’d by her, became more sweet.

From the bright Vision’s head
A creless Veil of Lawn was loosely spread;
From her white Temples fell her shady hair,
Like cloudy sun-shine, not too brown nor fair,
Her hands, her lips did love inspire,
Her every Grace my heart did fire,
But most her eyes, which languish with desire.

Ah charming Fair, said I,
How long can you my bliss and yours deny?
By nature and by Love this lonely shade
Was for revenge of suffering Lovers made:
Silence and shades with Love agree:
Both shelter you and favour me;
You cannot blush, because I cannot see.

No, let me die, she said,
Rather than lose the spotless name of Maid.
Faintly methought she spoke; for all the while
She bid me not believe her, with a smile.
Then die, said I: She still denied,
And is it thus, thus she cry’d.
You use a harmless Maid, and so she died.

I wak’d and straight I knew
I loved so well, it made my dream prove true.
Fancy the kinder Mistress of the two,
Fancy had done what Phillis would not do.
Ah, cruel Nympth, cease your disdain,
Whilst I can dream you scorn in vain,
Asleep or waking, you must ease my pain.

Enjoyed this poem by John Dryden? Read the rest of the Poem of the Week archive here.