The ode _Alexander’s Feast_ by Dryden is one of many contributions to literature inspired by the Macedonian Madman. “Great genius is to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide.” --_Dryden._ Perhaps the taking of Persepolis and the mad orgy of triumph there indulged in, mark the flood-tide of Alexander’s good fortune and likewise the fateful turning and re-flow of the tide. But what a tide! Given the effects of generous wine; and the warrior, the military genius, the poet-philosopher, the dreamer of dreams, the world conqueror, the fair-haired favorite of Zeus, is, indeed, in that wondrous triumph-hour--a deity. That sycophant court-adulation, that lulling love, that music, that wine might well “raise a mortal to the skies or draw an angel down.” O music, elf of a lost paradise, we remember with you, we lament, we love, we pity, we deplore, we--weep. With young-world Alexander touched to tears by old Timotheus’ lyre, we too lament a bravely fallen foe: “He sang Darius great and good By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood.” We too deplore human ingratitude: “Deserted in his utmost need By one his former bounty fed-- On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his dying eyes.” We too muse mournfully perplexed o’er all this sorry scheme of things and mingle our tears with those which thus perplexedly flowed so long ago: “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.” Lyre of old Timotheus, wizard violin, symphony concert--for the hour at least, we are what you make us, and whither you lead we follow. Sadness, remorseful sorrow-love, youth and beauty caught coiled in icy death--are these, as Poe asserts, the essential elements of supreme beauty? Poe’s magically beautiful _Lenore_, _Raven_, _Ullalume_, _Annabel Lee_ confirm the poet-critic’s dictum. Love in sorrow, beauty in death, mutability, vicissitude are the dominant chords in music, in literature, and in life. But reaction follows depression, and violent activity succeeds to passivity. And this the old musician knew who played so well upon the all too humanly receptive heart of Alexander. The wail of the Grecian ghosts “that in battle were slain and unburied remain inglorious on the plain” call for vengeance and point out the abodes of the Persian gods. Thais leads the way, and Alexander, drunk with wine and with the madness of music, follows whither she leads him; and soon the temples of the gods, the palaces of the Persian kings, the city Persepolis--are in crackling flame.