it is universally allowed, had a poetical and fertile imagination, a warm and enthusiastic genius, a bold and figurative expression, and a concise and sententious style; but it is generally supposed that many of those pieces which procured him such extravagant praises and extraordinary testimonies of esteem from the ancients are lost; and if they were not, it would be perhaps impossible to convey them into our language; for beauties of this kind, like plants of an odoriferous and delicate nature, are not to be transplanted into another clime without losing much of their fragrance or essential quality.

With With regard to those compositions which are usually called *Pindaric odes*, (but which ought rather to be distinguished by the name of *irregular odes*), we have many in our language that deserve particular commendation: the criticism which Mr Congreve has given us on that subject, has too much asperity and too great latitude; for if other writers have, by mistaking Pindar's measures, given their odes an improper title, it is a crime, one would think, not so dangerous to the commonwealth of letters as to deserve such severe reproof. Beside which, we may suppose that some of these writers did not deviate from Pindar's method through ignorance, but by choice; and that, as their odes were not to be performed with both finging and dancing, in the manner of Pindar's, it seemed unnecessary to confine the first and second stanzas to the same exact number as was done in his *troches* and *antistrophes*. The poet therefore had a right to indulge himself with more liberty: and we cannot help thinking, that the ode which Mr Dryden has given us, entitled, *Alexander's Feast*, or the *Power of Music*, is altogether as valuable in looofe and wild numbers, as it could have been if the *stanzas* were more regular, and written in the manner of Pindar. In this ode there is a wonderful sublimity of thought, a loftiness and sweetness of expression, and a most pleasing variety of numbers.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son, Aloft, in awful state, The god-like hero fate

is imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crown'd): The lovely Thais by his side Sat like a blooming eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserve the fair. Chor. Happy, Happy, &c.

*Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heav'nly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the pow'r of mighty love!) A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode, When he to fair Olympia pres'ed; And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world, The lift'ning crowd admire the lofty found. A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes the God, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. Chor. With ravish'd ears, &c.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung; Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums: Flush'd with a purple grace, He shows 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, Drinking is the folder's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure: Sweet the pleasure after pain. Chor. Bacchus' blessings, &c.

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 flew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heav'n and earth defy'd, Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And well-ring in his blood; Defeated at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos'd he lies; With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving in his alter'd foul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. Chor. Revolving, &c.

The mighty master smil'd to see That love was in the next degree: 'Twas but a kindred sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love, Softly sweet, in Lydian measures: Soon he foothold his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying.

he world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying. Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gaz'd on the fair, Who caus'd his care, And And 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 oppress'd, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. Chor. The prince, &c.

Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has rais'd up his head, As awake from the dead, And amaz'd he stares around.

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; Thais 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 artsunkown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

oth divide the crown: He rais'd a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

hor. 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: Feruet immenfulaque ruet. 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 rest; 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 long a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven'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 least to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'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 last 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 the least behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III.

e 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 poet's was born on earth. And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clattering 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 prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and injurious 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 lubrique and adult'rate age? Part II.