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For each seemed either; black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,

And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat
The monster moving onward came as fast
With horrid strides; hell trembled as he strode.
The undaunted fiend what this might be admired
Admired, not feared; God and his Sou except,
Created thing' naught valued he, nor shunned;
And with disdainful look thus first began:

Whence and what art thou, execrable shape, That darest, though grim and terrible, advance Thy miscreated front athwart my way

To yonder gates? Through them I mean to pass, That be assured, without leave asked of thee: Retire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of heaven." To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied: "Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he, Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then Tabroken, and in proud rebellious arms Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons Conjured against the Highest; for which both thou And they, outcast from God, are here condemned To waste eternal days in woe and pain? And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before." So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape, So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold More dreadful and deform. On the other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood, Unterrified, and like a comet burned, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands No second stroke intend; and such a frown Each cast at the other as when two black clouds, With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling on Over the Caspian, then stand front to front, Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow To join their dark encounter in mid-air :

1 * Created thing." This species of grammatical, or, rather, uzical, error occurs more than once in Milton.

* Or, Serpentarins, the serpent-bearer, a conspicuous constelLation in the northern hemisphere.

So frowned the mighty combatants that hell
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood,
For never but once more was either like
To meet so great a foe: and now great deeds
Had been achieved whereof all hell had rung,
Had not the suaky sorceress that sat
Fast by hell-gate, and kept the fatal key,
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.

ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN.

FROM "PARADISE LOST," Book V.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies day without night
Circle his throne, rejoicing: ye, in heaven;
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end!
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet! praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou
fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st,
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things: let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky, or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,-
In honor to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,

1 The Messiah.

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls: ye birds,
That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!

ONE FIRST MATTER ALL.
FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V.

To whom the wingéd Hierarch replied:
O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom
All things proceed, and up to him return,
If not depraved from good; created all
Such to perfection, one first matter all,
Endued with various forms, various degrees
Of substance, and, in things that live, of life;
But more refined, more spirituous, and pure,
As nearer to him placed, or nearer tending
Each in their several active spheres assigned,
Till body up to spirit work, in bounds
Proportioned to each kind. So from the root
Springs lighter the green stalk; from thence the
leaves

More aery; last the bright consummate flower
Spirits odorous breathes: flowers and their fruit,
Man's nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed,
To vital spirits aspire, to animal,

To intellectual; give both life and sense,
Fancy and understanding: whence the soul
Reason receives, and reason is her being,
Discursive or intuitive: discourse

Is oftest yours; the latter most is ours,
Differing but in degree, of kind the same.
Wonder not, then, what God for you saw good
If I refuse not, but convert, as you,
To proper substance. Time may come when men
With angels may participate, and find
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare;

And from these corporeal nutriments, perhaps,
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit,
Improved by tract of time, and, winged, ascend
Ethereal, as we; or may, at choice,
Here or in heavenly Paradises dwell;
If ye be found obedient, and retain
Unalterably firm his love entire

Whose progeny you are. Meanwhile enjoy
Your fill what happiness this happy state
Can comprehend, incapable of more.

WHAT IS GLORY?

CHRIST'S REPLY TO THE TEMPTER, "PARADISE REGAINED," BOOK III.

To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:
Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth
For empire's sake, nor empire to affect
For glory's sake, by all thy argument.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame,

The people's praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol

Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise?

They praise and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extolled,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise
His lot who dares be singularly good?
The intelligent among them, and the wise,
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.

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They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to overrun

Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by assault. What do these worthies
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave
Peaceable nations, neighboring or remote,
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy,
Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers,
Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice?
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other,
Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men,
Rolling in brutish vices, and deformed,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
But if there be in glory aught of good,
It may by means far different be attained,

Without ambition, war, or violence—

By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance. I mention still

Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne,
Made famous in a land and times obscure:
Who names not now with honor patient Job?
Poor Socrates (who next more memorable ?),
By what he taught and suffered for so doing,
For truth's sake suffering death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet if for fame and glory aught be done,
Aught suffered; if young Africane for fame
His wasted country freed from Punic rage,

The deed becomes unpraised-the man, at least-
And loses, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek,
Oft not deserved? I seek not mine, but His
Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am.

AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in piléd stones?

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-y pointing pyramid ?

Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument;
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,—
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
Aud so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF
TWENTY-THREE.

How soon bath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My lasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of
Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

TO THE LORD-GENERAL CROMWELL.

WRITTEN ABOUT MAY, 1652.

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownéd Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued;
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much re-

mains

To conquer still; Peace hath her victories,
No less renowned than War: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled
The fierce Epirot and the African bold:
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled;
Then to advise how War may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage; besides to know
Both spiritual power and civil-what each means,
What severs each-thou hast learned, which few
have done:

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?”
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his

state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother till Favonius reinspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATH-
ERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND,
DECEASED DECEMBER 16TH, 1646.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Followed thee up to joy and bliss forever.
Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

SONG: ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

Cyriac, this three-years-day these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou

ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

FROM THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE IN "COMUS.”

To the ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky.
There I suck the liquid air,

All amidst the gardens fair
Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crispéd shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring:
The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours
Thither all their bounties bring;
There eternal Summer dwells,
And west-winds, with musky wing,
About the cedarn alleys fling

Nard and cassia's balmy smells.

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But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free;
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or, if Virtue feeble were,

Heaven itself would stoop to her.

Richard Crashaw.

Crashaw (about 1610-1650) was educated at Cambridge, ard took holy orders. In France he became a Roman Catholic. His religious poetry and his translations from Latin and Italian are of a high order, though marred by the affectations fashionable in his day. In the same year that he graduated he published a volume of poems, chiefly religious, in Latin. They contain one memorable line. Referring to Christ's miracle of turning water into wine, he wrote:

"Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit."
(The modest water saw its God, and blushed.)

A soul whose intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy steams?
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer's day?
Would'st see a man whose well-warmed blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man whose tunéd humors be
A seat of rarest harmony?

Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile
Age? Would'st see December smile?
Would'st see a nest of roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In sum, would'st see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;
And, when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends:-
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?

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This rare one, reader, would'st thou see? Hark, hither! and--thyself be he!

IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S' RULE OF HEALTH.

*

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark, hither, reader! would'st thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Would'st see a man all his own wealth,
His own physic, his own health?
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well--
Her garments, that upon her sit,

As garments should do, close and fit;

A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed,
Nor choked with what she should be dressed;
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine;
As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aërial veil, is drawn

O'er Beauty's face, seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride;

Leonard Lessins was not a physician, but a famous Jesuit. He was born near Antwerp in 1554, taught philosophy and theology at Louvain, and died in 1623. Among his works was one on the True Rule of Health, in which he recommends hygienic remedies, and disapproves of drugs.

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