The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd,
The youth of Edith erst approv'd,

To see the revel scene;
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome

All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,

A shaking seiz'd the wall:
Up sprung the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,

Aud music fills the hall.

But certes, solely sunk with woe,
Sir Topaz sees the elphin show,

His spirits in him dye;
When Oberon crys,

“ A man is near, A mortal passion, cleeped fear,

Hangs flagging in the sky."

With that, Sir Topaz, hapless youth! In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth,

Intreats them pity graunt; “For als be been a mister wight Betray'd by wand'ring in the night

To tread the circled haunt."

N

“Ah Losell vile!” at once they roar; (* And little skill'd of fairie lore,

Thy cause to come we know: Now has thy kestrell courage fell; And fairies, siuce a lye you tell,

Are free to work thee woe.”

Then Will, wlio bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,

The captive upward flung;
There like a tortoise in a shop
He dangled from the chamber top,

Where whilome Edward hung.

The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,

They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while

'Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,

And down ydrops the knight;
For never spell by fairie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade

Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay, 'Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er: But wot ye well his barder lot? His seely back the hunch had got

Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroak’d my youngling head,

And when the tale was done, “Thus some are born, my son,” she cries, "With base impediments to rise,

And some are born with none.

“But virtue can itself advance
To what the fav’rite fools of chance

By fortune seem'd design'd:
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight

Upon th' unworthy mind."

ALEXANDER'S FEAST.

BY DRYDEN.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia woul,

By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms he crown'd.
The lovely Thaïs by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In fow'r of youth and beauty's pride,

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserve the fair.

Timotheus plac'd on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heav'nly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the pow'r of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god :
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press’d,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the

world.-
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity, they shout around:
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound :

With ravish'd 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 triumpla comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush'd 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 :