Who just dropp'd half-way down, nor lower fell;
So poised, so gently she descends from high,
It seems a soft dismission from the sky.
Her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pretence
Her clergy heralds make in her defence;
A second century not half-way run,

Since the new honours of her blood begun.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS ANNE
KILLIGREW.

THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new plucked from paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in procession fixed and regular,
Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace;
Or, called 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 heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thine own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given ;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there :
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
But if thy pre-existing soul

Was formed 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 she left behind. Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy ?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age—

Nay, added fat pollutions of our own—

T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all;
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;
Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of fate;
And there the last assizes keep

For those who wake, and those who sleep;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are covered with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

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 placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound; So should desert in arms be crowned.

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 deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

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 pressed;
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curled,

And stamped an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world.
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound;

A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
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;
Flushed 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.

Soothed 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 hand, and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate

Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies,

With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered 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 soothed 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, O 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 crowned, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,

Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again.

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed,
The vanquished 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.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead,
And, amazed, he stares around.
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!
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

To the valiant crew:

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 seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus long ago,

Ere heaving billows learned to blow,

While organs yet were mute,