Dryden mourns the death of a younger poet he barely got to know—John Oldham—but whose talent he immediately recognized as akin to his own. He feels they shared a satirist’s eye, despising the same foolishness and vice. The poem moves from the shock of late acquaintance to deep admiration for how quickly Oldham mastered his craft, starting later yet arriving at excellence sooner than his elders. Dryden compares him to the young runner Euryalus, who won the race after his older friend Nisus slipped—a tender, sad image of promise cut short. He imagines what age might have taught Oldham, but then shrugs it off: satire doesn’t need polish; rough, forceful lines carry their own wit. The mood is personal and grieving, yet full of respect. By calling Oldham “the Marcellus of our tongue,” Dryden sets him among the tragically young and brilliant, bound with laurels but swallowed by early darkness. The farewell feels both intimate and grand—a poet’s goodbye to a brother he found too late.
To The Memory Of Mr Oldham — Summary
Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive; The last set out the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, While his young friend performed and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? It might (what Nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betrayed. Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness; and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme. Once more, hail and farewell! farewell, thou young, But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue! Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.