Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame:
The battle-field-where Persia's victim-horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word,
Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career!

The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow!
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear!
Mountains above-earth's, ocean's plain below!
Death in the front-destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene,-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate, and bards adore,

As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely, hither let him roam,

And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth!
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side,
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

IX.-ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

(DRYDEN.)

Alexander the Great, King of Macedon, was born at Pella in 356 B.C. His career as a conqueror is well known. He died in 323 B.C., of an illness brought on by the unhealthy nature of the marshy ground near Babylon, and aggravated by a too liberal indulgence in wine at a banquet given to his officers. It is not, however, his banquet at Babylon, but one at Persepolis, some years before, that Dryden takes as the subject of his poem.

John Dryden, one of the greatest of English poets and satirists, was born in Northamptonshire in 1631. He died in 1700, and was buried in Westminster

Abbey.

St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music, was a Roman lady who suffered martyrdoın in the third century. She is said to have been taught music by an angel,hence, "She drew an angel down." Her birthday was the 22d November.

'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son,

Aloft in awful state

The god-like 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 Thais, 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 choir,

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 seat 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 stamped 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 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,

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 the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast look 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, oh 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 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 their hair,

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 glittering temples of their hostile gods!—

The princes applaud with a furious joy ;

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way,

To light him to his prey!

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.

Thus, long ago

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute,

Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And sounding lyre,

Could swell the soul to rage—or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came,

Inventress of the vocal frame.

The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,