This the divine Cecilia found, And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. Pore. CHAP. XXVII. ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial Throne: His valiant Peers were plac'd around; Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound. The lovely Thäis by his side Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the pow'r of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god: When he to fair Olympia press'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world- A present deity they shout around, The monarch bears, Assumes the god, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath; he comes! he comes! Drinking joys did first ordain : 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. His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, With downcast look the joyless victor sate, The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smil❜d to see Take the good the gods provide thee. Gaz'd on the fair Who caus'd his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, Now strike the golden lyre again; And louder yet, and yet a louder strain. And rouse 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 Furies arise, See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in the air, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Each a torch in his hand; These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, Behold how they toss their torches on high, 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; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown; DRYDEN CHAP. XXVIII. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The honours of his ebon poll With which Aurora decks the skies, Above, below, in all the house, Well lattic'd-but the grate, alas! But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, Night veil'd the pole. All seem'd secure, When led by instinct sharp and sure, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, |