O fruitful grief, the world's disease!
Aud vainer mau, to make it so,
Who gives his miseries increase,
By cultivating his own woe!

We call that sickness which is health, That persecution which is grace, That poverty which is true wealth, And that dishonor which is praise. Alas! our time is here so short,

That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent.

But we may make it pleasant too,

If we will take our measures right, And not what Heaven has done undo By an unruly appetite.

The world is full of beaten roads,
But yet so slippery withal,

That where one walks secure 'tis odds
A hundred and a hundred fall.

Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest
Whose journey has been most secure.

It is content alone that makes

Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; And who buys sorrow cheapest takes An ill commodity too dear.

on the great fire. His "Absalom and Achitophel" is regarded as one of the most powerful of modern satires. His "Religio Laici" exhibits the poet convulsed with religious doubts.

After the death of Charles II. Dryden became a Roman Catholic, had his children brought up in that faith, and lived and died in it. Macaulay calls him an "illustrious renegade." Scott takes a less uncharitable view of his motives. When William and Mary ascended the throne Dryden lost his laureateship, and thenceforth became a bookseller's hack. For translating Virgil into English verse he received £1200; for his "Fables," about £250. After a life of literary toil, productive of many splendid works, but dishonored by some which it were well for his memory if they could be annihilated, Dryden let fall his pen. He died at sixty-eight, and his body was buried in Westminster Abbey. In terms of extreme exaggeration, Johnson says of him that "he found the English language brick, and left it marble.”

Dryden was sixty-six years old when he wrote his "Alexander's Feast," one of the finest lyrics in all literature. "I am glad," he wrote to his publisher, "to hear from all hands that my Ode is esteemed the best of all my poetry by all the town. I thought so myself when I writ it; but being old, I mistrusted my own judgment." Let it be added in Dryden's behalf that he had the grace to submit with meekness to Collier's severe criticism of the moral defects of his plays. Undoubtedly, the recollection of them caused him many bitter regrets. His prose style is excellent. "In his satire," says Scott, "his arrow is always drawn to the head, and flies directly and mercilessly to his object."

John Dryden.

One of the most celebrated of English poets, Dryden (1631-1700) was born in Northamptonshire, of Puritan parents. He received his school education at Westminster, under Dr. Busby, of birchen memory; his college education, at Cambridge. When Cromwell died, he wrote landatory stanzas to his memory; but this did not prevent his greeting Charles II., at his restoration, with a salutatory poem, entitled "Astræa Redux." Dryden's veerings in religion, politics, criticism, and taste exhibit a mind under the dominion of impulse. His marriage, which took place in 1665, was not a happy one, though he seems to have been warmly susceptible of domestic affection. In 1668 he succeeded Sir William Davenant as poet laureate. For many years he had supported himself by writing for the stage. He wrote some twenty-eight plays. His tragedies are stilted and ineffective; while his comedies are execrably impure and licentious, and not to be palliated even by the laxity of that corrupt and shameless age. He lacked some of the greatest elements of poetic genius, and in moral carnestness was sadly deficient. His "Annus Mirabilis" is a poem

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

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

St. Cecilia, a Roman lady born about A.D. 295, and bred in the Christian faith, was married to a Pagan nobleman, Valerianus. She told her husband that she was visited nightly by an angel, whom he was allowed to see after his own conversion. They both suffered martyrdom. The angel by whom Cecilia was visited is referred to in the closing lines of Dryden's "Ode,” coupled with a tradition that he had been drawn down to her from heaven by her melodies. In the earliest traditions of Cecilia there is no mention of skill in music. The great Italian painters fixed her position as its patron saint by representing her always with symbols of harmony-a harp or organ-pipes. Then came the suggestion adopted in Dryden's "Ode," that the organ was invented by St. Cecilia. The practice of holding Musical Festivals on Cecilia's Day (the 22d of November) began to prevail in England at the close of the 17th century.

I.

'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 myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned):

The lovely Thais, 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.

CHORUS.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.

II.

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 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.

CHORUS.

With ravished ears

The monarch hears;

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

III.

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.

CHORUS.

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

IV.

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again:

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice be 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.

CHORUS.

Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.

V.

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; Honor but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying;

If the world be worth thy winning, Think, ob 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.

CHORUS.

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.

VI.

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, bark, 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;

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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.

CHORUS.

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.

VII.

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.

GRAND CHORUS.

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.

VENI CREATOR.

Creator Spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit every pious mind;

Come, pour thy joys on humankind;

From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,

Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command;
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,

Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gifts with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellions they are grown,
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down.
Chase from our minds the inferual foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe:
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honor, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name!
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died!
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

SHAFTESBURY DELINEATED AS ACHITO

PHEL.

FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL."

Of these the false Achitophel was first-
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs and crookéd counsels fit,
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;
Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay,

And o'er informed its tenement of clay:

A daring pilot in extremity,

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went

high,

He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide:
Else, why should he, with wealth and honors blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please,
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?
And all to leave what with his toil he won
To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son!

BUCKINGHAM DELINEATED AS ZIMRI.

FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL."

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land:
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand,
A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon;
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman! who could every hour employ
With something new to wish or to enjoy.
Railing and praising were his usual themes,
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes;
So over-violent or over-civil,

That every man with him was god or devil.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art,—
Nothing went unrewarded but desert;
Beggared by fools whom still he found too late,
He had his jest, and they had his estate.
He laughed himself from court, then sought relief
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief;
For, spite of him, the weight of business fell
On Absalom and wise Achitophel :-
Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft,
He left not faction, but of that was left.

ENJOY THE PRESENT.
PARAPHRASE FROM HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIX.
Enjoy the present smiling hour,
And put it out of Fortune's power:

The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless, gentle course

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It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down;
Sheep and their folds together drown;
Both house and homestead into seas are borne;
And rocks are from their old foundations torn;
And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered
honors mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day!
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine;

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine!
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my
hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy

Does man, her slave, oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleased to bless:
Still various, and inconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings, and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away!

The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned: Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,

If storms arise, and clouds grow black,
If the mast split and threaten wreck?
Then let the greedy merchant fear
For his ill-gotten gain,

And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main.

For me, secure from Fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my small pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;
And, running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek,
And see the storm ashore.

Katharine Phillips.

Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, Katharine Phillips (1631-1664) showed genuine poetical taste and ability. She was a friend of Jeremy Taylor, who addressed to her a "Discourse on Friendship." She wrote under the name of Orinda, was praised by Roscommon and Cowley, and had the friendship of many of the eminent authors of her day. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters, which was published after her death. Her poems were very popular in her lifetime, but their fame has been evanscent.