JOHN DRYDEN. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, Or, the Power of Music: AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; The lovely Thaïs by his side None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair! Timotheus plac'd on high, Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, The song began from Jove; And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world; The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravish'd ears, The monarch hears, Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung; He shews his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath-he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; . Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius, great and good! By too severe a fate Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, The various turns of chance below; The mighty master smil'd to see Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Take the good the gods provide thee. Gaz'd on the fair Who caus'd his care, Sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. At length, with love and wine at once opprest, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has rais'd up his head, As awak'd from the dead, Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries: See the snakes how they rear, How they hiss in the air! And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand, These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods!The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy: Thaïs led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. Inventress of the vocal frame; And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He rais'd a mortal to the skies, ODE To the pious Memory of the accomplished young Lady, Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW, Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesy and Painting. THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the Skies, Thou tread'st with seraphims, the vast abyss: Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse But such as thy own voice did practise here, And candidate of Heav'n. If by traduction came thy mind, A soul so charming from a stock so good; Was form'd, at first with myriads more, |