Pizarro, the Spanish invaders, thus express their delight at the beauty of this new country on whose shores they have landed : :

[Enter Cortez and Pizarro, with their company.]

Cortez.

On what new happy climate are we thrown,

So long kept secret and so lately known?

As if our old world modestly withdrew,

And here in private had brought forth a new.

Pizarro. Corn, oil, and wine, are wanting to this ground,
In which our countries fruitfully abound,

As if this infant world, yet unarrayed,

Naked and bare in Nature's lap were laid.
No useful arts have yet found footing here,

But all untaught and savage doth appear.

Cortez. Wild and untaught are terms which we alone
Invent for fashions differing from our own;
For all their customs are by Nature wrought,
But we by art unteach what Nature taught.

Pizarro. In Spain, our springs, like old men's children, be
Decayed and withered from their infancy.

No kindly showers fall on our barren earth
To watch the season in a timely birth;

Our summer such a russet livery wears

As in a garment often dyed appears.

Cortez. Here Nature spreads her fruitful sweetness round, Breathes on the air, and broods upon the ground;

Here nights and days the only seasons be.

The sun no climate does so gladly see;

When forced from hence to view our parts, he mourns,
Takes little journeys and makes quick returns.

And thus the scene continues in praise of this new fairyland of America, which they are soon to stain with the blood of their conquered victims. I think, even from this little extract, you will decide that tragedy does not move well to alternate rhymes, and that all its grandeur departs when it is set to a see-saw measure.

As a better specimen of his rhymes, I shall quote Alexander's Feast, which is thought one of the best things he ever wrote. Dryden said himself that it was "the best ode ever written in English." It was composed for a musical

festival held in honor of Saint Cecilia. It is called

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

'T was 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 myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crowned).

The lovely Thaïs by his side

Sate 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 seats above,
Such is the power of mighty love.
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spires 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 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 looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance 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;
'T was 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,
Honor 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 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.

PART V.

FROM POPE TO WORDSWORTH.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

1700 TO 1790.

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