[THIS little requiem has long been a favourite, but little has been known of the author except that he was a dramatic writer of some repute early in the 17th century, his fame being based on the success of the 'Duchess of Malfi' and other dramas. Mr. Dyce has made a collection of his writings. (London, 1830).] ALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren, CALL Since o'er shady groves they hover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm ALEXANDER'S FEAST. Or the Power of Music. BY JOHN DRYDEN.—1632-1700. [JOHN DRYDEN, the son of Erasmus Dryden, of Tichmersh, was born at Aldwinkle, in Northamptonshire, in the year 1632. He was educated at Westminster School under the celebrated Dr. Busby, and was elected to one of the Cambridge scholarships. He entered Trinity College in 1650, and, in four years, took his B. A. degree. At the same time, upon the death of his father, he came into possession of property worth about 60%. a year. He soon afterwards began to write poetry and dramatic composi tions, and, in 1665, married the Lady Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the first Earl of Berkshire. For many years he supported himself solely by his writings; these were principally for the stage, or satires of men of the day, or translations of the classic authors. His poems "Absalom and Achitophel" and "The Hind and the Panther" gained him great reputation, and he was made Poet Laureate. In his later days he wrote "Alexander's Feast: an Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," the finest lyric poem in the English language, and his “Fables." Dryden died in poverty on the Ist of May, 1700, at a small house in Gerrard Street, Soho. He had a public funeral, and was buried with great honour in Westminster Abbey.] 'WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won, 'TWAS By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound; The lovely Thaïs by his side. Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride, 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 song began from Jove, 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 hears, 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 ; 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, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast look the joyless victor sate, The various turns of fate below; The mighty master smiled to see For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures; Never ending, still beginning, If the world be worth thy winning, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 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, At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries; See the snakes that 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 Inglorious on the plain; Give the vengeance due 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, fired another Troy. |