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Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay, 'Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er; But wot ye well his harder lot? His seely back the hunch had got

Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroked my youngling head,

And when the tale was done,
6 Thus some are born, my son," she cries,
“ With base impediments to rise,

And some are born with none.

AT 162

“ But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance

By fortune seem'd design'd:
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight

Upon the unworthy mind.”

ALEXANDER'S FEAŞT.

BY DRYPEN.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won,

By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hiero sate

On his imperial throne :
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crown'd.
The lovely Thaïs by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower 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.

Timotheus placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.

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The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the power of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressid,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the

world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound :

With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the gud,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

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 soldier's pleasure :

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;
And while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his land, 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 weltering in his blood :
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On tlie bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast look the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole;
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled 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 sooth'd 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 :

If the world be worth thy winning, Think, 0 think it worth enjoying !

Lovely Thaïs 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,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh’d and look'd, and sigb’d again :
At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d,
The vauquisb'd victor sunk upon her breast.

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

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