is bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! hark! the horrid sound! Has rais'd up his head,

wake from the dead, And amaz'd he stares round.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the furies arise: See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unbury'd remain, Inglorious on the plain. Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; That's led the way To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, the fir'd another Troy.

Chor. And the king seiz'd, &c.

Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learnt to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And founding lyre, Could swell the soul of rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiasm, from her sacred store, Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 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; She drew an angel down.

Grand chor. At last, &c.

There is another poem by Dryden, on the death of Mrs Anne Killebrew, a young lady eminent for her skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic * has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: Fervet immensaque ruat. How far this criticism is just, the public must determine.

I. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest;

Whose palms, new-pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rift; Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, Or in procession fix'd and regular, Mov'd with the heav'n's majestic pace; Or call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heav'n's eternal year is thine. Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first fruits of poetry were given To make thyself a welcome inmate there, While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heav'n.

II. If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the lets to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transus'd into thy blood, So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho lait which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore, Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III. May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heav'n, as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth. And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no chattering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heav'n had not leisure to renew: For all thy blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy day above.

IV. O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heav'nly gift of poetry? Made profiteer and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched me! why were we hurry'd down This lubricite and adult'rate age,

*Nay Part II.

POETRY.

V.

Art she had none, yet wanted none; For nature did that want supply: So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted store defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life she read. And to be read herself, the need not fear; Each tellt, and every light, her Muse will bear, Tho' Epictetus with his lamp were there. E'en love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream, So cold herself, while the flush warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, For Painture near adjoining lay, A plentiful province and alluring prey. A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd. (As conquerors will never want pretence, When arm'd, to justify th'o'ffence) And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. The country open lay without defence: For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could reprent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament, And all the large domains which the dumb fitter sway'd. All bow'd beneath her government, Receiv'd in triumph whereoe'er she went. Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind. The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks, Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too, and ampler floods, Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods: Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear. The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, freezes, columns, broken lie, And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye; What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name. So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.

VII.

The scene then chang'd, with bold erect look Our martial king the fight with reverence struck: For not content t'expres his outward part Her hand call'd out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-defigning thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix queen was pourtray'd too so bright,