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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,
Those 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, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown :
He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

This ode we have just read is one of the most famous in our literature. I have told you Dryden's opinion of it. I leave it now to your own taste to decide whether you prefer it above some of the lyrics of the time of Shakespeare,, or some others of the poets of the nineteenth century whom we shall study later.

Dryden lived to a good old age, and in his last days was regarded as an authority almost absolute in all matters of poetry. The place which literary men of his time, and for some time after, were accustomed to use as their meetingplace a sort of headquarters for the wits and poets — was Will's Coffee-house. Here Dryden used to go almost every afternoon; and as he entered, everybody made way for him to pass to his favorite seat, which was in the warmest corner near the chimney in winter, and on the coolest end of the balcony in summer.

Here he sat in a sort of state, the autocrat of letters, and gave his opinions on literary art till, honored and reverenced by his age, he died in the first year of the eighteenth century, at the age of sixty-nine.

PART V.

FROM POPE TO WORDSWORTH.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

1700 TO 1790.

16

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