ears, he produced
four dramas,--one of them, indeed, adapted from the French, but the
other three, original; and one, Don Sebastian, deemed to rank among the
best of his dramatic works. In 1693, another volume of miscellanies,
with more translations, appeared. He also published, about this time, a
new version of "Juvenal and Persius," portions of which were contributed
by his sons John and Charles. His last play, "Love Triumphant," was
enacted--as his first, the "Wild Gallant," had been--without success;
and it is remarkable, that while the curtain dropped heavily and slowly
upon Dryden, it was opening upon Congreve, whose first comedy was
enacted the same year with Dryden's last, and who became the lawful heir
of much of Dryden's licentiousness, and of more than his elegance and
wit.

He next commenced the translation of "Virgil," which in the course of
three years he completed, and gave to the world. It was published in
July 1697. He had dashed it off with the utmost freedom and fire, and no
work was ever more thoroughly identified with its translator. It is
_Dryden's_ "Virgil," every line of it. A great and almost national
interest was felt in the undertaking, such as would be felt now, were it
announced that Tennyson was engaged in a translation of Goethe. Addison
supplied arguments, and an essay on the "Georgics." A dedication to the
new king was expected by the Court, but inexorably declined by the poet.
It came forth, notwithstanding, amidst universal applause; nor was the
remuneration for the times small, amounting to at least L1200 or L1400.

So soon as this great work was off his hands, by way, we suppose, as
Scott was used to say, of "refreshing the machiner," Dryden wrote his
famous ode, "Alexander's Feast," for a meeting of the Musical Society on
St Cecilia's day,--wrote it, according to Bolingbroke, at one sitting,
although he spent, it is said, a fortnight in polishing it into its
present rounded and perfect form. It took the public by storm, and
excited a greater sensation than any of the poet's productions, except
"Absalom and Achitophel." Dryden himself, when complimented on it as the
finest ode in the language, owned the soft impeachment, and said, "A
nobler ode never was produced, and never will;" and in a manner, if not
absolutely, he was right.

Dryden was now again at sea for a subject. Sometimes he revolved once
more his favourite plan of an Epic poem, and "Edward the Black Prince"
loomed for