My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my minde to smell my fatall day,
Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time
Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.

ye spent,

I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if

Addison, it

It be as short as yours.

may be remembered, thus refers to a brother bard in

the following couplet :

"Nor, DENHAM, must we e'er forget thy strains,

While Cooper's Hill commands the neighboring plains."

It was this DENHAM that wrote that celebrated quartette-which seems to have been a poetic inspiration :

Oh! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full!

ANDREW MARVELL, the friend of Milton, wrote these glowing lines On a Drop of Dew:

See how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn,

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where 'twas born,

Round in itself encloses;
And in its little globe's extent,

Frames as it can its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight!
Scarce touching where it lies;

But giving back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear, because so long divided from the sphere,
Restless it rolls and insecure, trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the warm sun pities its pain,

And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul-that drop, that ray

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,
Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,

And recollecting its own light,

Does in its pure and circling thoughts express
The greater heaven in a heaven less.

DRYDEN's magnificent Ode, On the Power of Music, written in 1697, for the festival of St. Cecilia's day, is by many considered his masterpiece. It is pronounced unequalled by any thing of its kind since classic times; and is the best illustration of the pliancy of our English extant. He wrote this grand Ode at Burleigh House, where his translation of Virgil was partly executed. One morning Lord Bolingbroke chanced to call on Dryden, whom he found in unusual agitation. On inquiring the cause, "I have been up all night,” replied the bard; "my musical friends made me promise to write them an Ode for the Feast of St. Cecilia: I have been so struck with the subject which occurred to me, that I could not leave it till I had completed it: here it is, finished at one sitting."

The poem is designed to exhibit the different passions excited by Timotheus in the mind of Alexander, feasting a triumphant conqueror in Persepolis. The grandeur of the poem can only be appreciated by perusing it entire, and more fully, indeed, on even a second perusal. Here is the opening stanza :

His valiant peers were placed around,

Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound;

So should desert in arms be crown'd.

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;
And trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire!

*

As instances of Dryden's lighter verse, we present the following:

I feed a flame within, which so torments me,

That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me;
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and so I love it,

That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,

But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my love froin being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this, to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
Where I conceal my love, no frown can fright me:

To be more happy, I dare not aspire :

Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

O, lull me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet!
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.

Dryden happening to pass an evening at the Duke of Buckingham's, where were assembled Lord Dorset, the Earl of Rochester, and other distinguished men, the conversation chanced to turn upon literary topics. After some debate, it was agreed that each person present should improvise some lines on any subject his fancy might suggest, and that the contributions should be placed under the candlestick. Dryden was excepted, but the office of umpire was assigned to him. Some of the company were at more than ordinary pains to outrival their competitors; but Lord Dorset was noticed to write his two or three lines with the most tranquil unconcern. All the wits having contributed their effusions, Dryden proceeded to unfold the leaves of their literary destiny. He discovered deep emotion during the process, and at length exclaimed,