26. St. Cecilia, according to the story in the "Golden Legend," was under the immediate protection of an angel. But it was not her sweet playing, but her spotless purity, that brought the angel to earth, not to listen, but to be "a heavenly guard." Compare these last four lines with those at the close of Pope's Ode. Dr. Warton says of "Alexander's Feast": "If Dryden had never written anything but this ode, his name would have been immortal, as would that of Gray, if he had never written anything but his 'Bard.' It is difficult to find new terms to express our admiration of the variety, richness, and melody of its numbers; the force, beauty, and distinctness of its images; the succession of so many different passions and feelings; and the matchless perspicuity of its diction. No particle of it can be wished away, but the epigrammatic turn of the four concluding lines." Hallam says: "This ode has a few lines mingled with a far greater number ill conceived and ill expressed; the whole composition has that spirit which Dryden hardly ever wanted, but it is too faulty for high praise. It used to pass for the best work of Dryden and the best ode in the language. But few lines are highly poetical, and some sink to the level of a common drinking song. It has the defects as well as the merits of that poetry which is written for musical accompaniment." THE FIRE OF LONDON. [FROM "ANNUS MIRABILIS."] Such was the rise of this prodigious fire,{1} Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred, From thence did soon to open streets aspire, And straight to palaces and temples spread. The diligence of trades, and noiseful gain, And luxury, more late, asleep were laid; All was the Night's, and in her silent reign No sound the rest of Nature did invade. In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,{2} Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose; And first few scattering sparks about were blown, Big with the flames that to our ruin rose. Then in some close-pent room it crept along, And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed; Till the infant monster, with devouring strong, Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head. Now, like some rich or mighty murderer, Too great for prison which he breaks with gold, Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear, And dares the world to tax him with the old, So scapes the insulting fire his narrow jail, And makes small outlets into open air; There the fierce winds his tender force assail, And beat him downward to his first repair. The winds, like crafty courtesans, withheld His flames from burning but to blow them more: And, every fresh attempt, he is repell'd With faint denials, weaker than before.