The two odes on St Cecilia's Day are both admirable in different ways. "Alexander's Feast," like Burns's "Tam o' Shanter," seems to come out at once "as from a mould." It is pure inspiration, but of the second order--rather that of the Greek Pythoness than of the Hebrew prophet. Coleridge or Wordsworth makes the objection to it, that the Bacchus it describes is the mere vulgar deity of drink-- "Flush'd with a purple grace, He shows his honest face"-- not the ideal Bacchus, clad in vine-leaves, returning from the conquest of India, and attended by a procession of the lions and tigers he had tamed. But this, although a more imaginative representation of the god of wine, had not been so suitably sung at an entertainment presided over by an Alexander and a Thais, a drunk conqueror and a courtezan. Dryden himself, we have seen, thought this the best ode that ever was or would be written in the English language. In a certain sense he was right. For vivacity, freedom of movement, and eloquence, it has never been equalled. But there are some odes--such as Coleridge's "Ode to France" and Wordsworth's "Power of Sound"--which as certainly excel it in strength of imagination, grandeur of conception, and unity of execution and effect. Of Dryden's Satires we have already spoken in a general way. "Absalom and Achitophel" is of course the masterpiece, and cannot be too highly praised as a gallery of portraits, and for the daring force and felicity of its style. Why enlarge on a poem, almost every line of which has become a proverb? "The Medal" is inferior only in condensation--in spirit and energy it is quite equal. In "MacFlecknoe," the mock-heroic is sustained with unparalleled vigour from the first line to the last. Shadwell is a favourite of Dryden's ire. He _fancies_ him, and loves to empty out on his head all the riches of his wrath. What can be more terrible than the words occurring in the second part of "Absalom and Achitophel"-- "When wine hath given him courage to blaspheme, He curses God--but _God before curst him_!"