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All thy remaining life should sunshine be;
Behold! the public storm is spent at last,
The sovereign's tost at sea no more,
And thou, with all the noble company,
Art got at last to shore.

But, whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see
All march'd up to possess the promis'd land,
Thou, still alone, alas! dost gaping stand
Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand!

"As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
After a tedious stormy night,

Such was the glorious entry of our king;
Enriching moisture drop'd on every thing:
Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light!
But then, alas! to thee alone,

One of old Gideon's miracles was shown;
For every tree and every herb around

With pearly dew was crown'd,

And upon all the quicken'd ground

The fruitful seed of Heaven did brocding lie,
And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry.
It did all other threats surpass,
When God to his own people said

(The men whom through long wanderings he had led) That he would give them ev'n a Heaven of brass :

They look'd up to that Heaven in vain,

The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labor fruitless now;
Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever

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'When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try

To wash away th' inherent dye : Long work perhaps may spoil thy colors quite, But never will reduce the native white:

To all the ports of honor and of gain,
I often steer my course in vain ;
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack'nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be

The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy
Whoever this world's happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only Heaven desire
Do from the world retire.

This was my error, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demi-votary to make.

Thus, with Sapphira and her husband's fate,
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,,
For all that I gave up I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain

That bounteous Heaven, which God did not re-Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse! strain

Upon the most unjust to shine and rain

The court, and better king, t' accuse : The heaven under which I live is fair, The fertile soil will a full harvest bear:

"The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou

Thou didst with faith and labor serve,

And didst (if faith and labor can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Given to another thou didst see,
Given to another, who had store

Of fairer and of richer wives before,
And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be!
Go on; twice seven years more thy fortune try;
Twice seven years more God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away

Into the court's deceitful lottery:

But think how likely 'tis that thou,
With the dull work of thy unwieldly plow,
Should'st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Should'st even able be to live;

Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
In that miraculous year, when manna rain'd on all."

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy Cowley said-
"Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid
The ills which thou thyself hast made?
When in the cradle innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,

And my abused soul didst bear

Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where,
Thy golden Indies in the air;
And ever since I strive in vain
My ravish'd freedom to regain;

Still I rebel, still thou dost reign;
Lo! still in verse against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
Which, if the earth but once, it ever, breeds;
No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive :

Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plow
When I but think how many a tedious year

Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortunes' fatal end;
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend;
I ought to be accurst, if I refuse

To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands, they say; and, though I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all the princes, thou

Should'st not reproach rewards for being small or slow;

Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath,
And that too after death."


FIRST-BORN of Chaos, who so fair didst come
From the old Negro's darksome womb!
Which, when it saw the lovely child,
The melancholy mass put on kind looks and

Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know,
But ever ebb and ever flow!

Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Earth make love!

Hail, active Nature's watchful life and health
Her joy, her ornament, and wealth!
Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee!
Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bride-
groom he!

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Say, from what golden quivers of the sky
Do all thy winged arrows fly?
Swiftness and Power by birth are thine:
From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word

"Tis, I believe, this archery to show,

That so much cost in colors thou,
And skill in painting, dost bestow

Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.

Swift as light thoughts their empty career run,
Thy race is finish'd when begun;
Let a post-angel start with thee,
And thou the goal of Earth shalt reach as soon as he.

Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and gay,
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey!
And all the year dost with thee bring
Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above
The Sun's gilt tents for ever move,
And still, as thou in pomp dost go,

The shining pageants of the world attend thy


Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn
The humble glow-worms to adorn,
And with those living spangles gild

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the


Night, and her ugly subjects, thou dost fright, And Sleep, the lazy owl of night; Asham'd, and fearful to appear,

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All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes,
Is but thy several liveries;

Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;
A crown of studded gold thou bear'st;
The virgin-lilies, in their white,

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The violet, Spring's little infant, stands

Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands.
On the fair tulip thou dost doat;
Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-color'd coat.

With flame condens'd thou do'st thy jewels fix,
And solid colors in it mix:
Flora herself envies to see
Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she

Ah, goddess! would thou could'st thy hand withhold And be less liberal to gold!

Did'st thou less value to it give,

Of how much care, alas! might'st thou poor man relieve!

To me the Sun is more delightful far,

And all fair days much fairer are. But few, ah! wondrous few, there be, Who do not gold prefer, O goddess! ev'n to thee

They screen their horrid shapes with the black Through the soft ways of Heaven, and air, and sea hemisphere.

Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide,

With them there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, And with thy living stream through the close chan

Of painted dreams a busy swarm:

At the first opening of thine eye

The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts,

Creep, conscious, to their secret rests:
Nature to thee does reverence pay,

Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way.
At thy appearance, Grief itself is said

To shake his wings, and rouse his head:
And cloudy Care has often took

A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold;

Thy sun-shine melts away his cold.
Encouraged at the sight of thee,

nels slide.

But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land o'erflows;
Takes there possession, and does make
Of colors mingled light, a thick and standing lake.

But the vast ocean of unbounded day,

In th' empyrean Heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below, From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.


HOPE! whose weak being ruin'd is,

To the check color comes, and firmness to the Alike, if it succeed, and if it miss; knee.

Ev'n Lust, the master of a harden'd face,
Blushes, if thou be'st in the place,
To Darkness' curtains he retires;

In sympathizing night he rolls his smoky fires.

When, goddess! thou lift'st up thy waken'd head,
Out of the morning's purple bed,
Thy quire of birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound:

Vain shadow! which does vanish quite,
Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a possibility

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, "Tis hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope! thou bold taster of delight, [quite! Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st i'


Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,
By clogging it with legacies before!

The joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflower'd virgins to our bed;
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty custom's paid to thee.

For joy, like wine, kept close does better taste;
If it take air before, its spirits waste.

Hope! Fortune's cheating lottery!
Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be;
Fond archer, Hope! who tak'st thy aim so far,
That still or short or wide thine arrows are!

Thin, empty cloud, which th' eye deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives!
A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But must drop presently in tears!
When thy false beams o'er Reason's light prevail,
By ignes fatui for north-stars we sail.

Brother of Fear, more gayly clad!
The merrier fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad:
Sire of Repentance! child of fond Desire!
That blow'st the chymics', and the lovers', fire,
Leading them still insensibly on

By the strange witchcraft of "anon!"
By thee the one does changing Nature, through
Her endless labyrinths, pursue ;
And th' other chases woman, whilst she goes
More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.


HOPE! of all ills that men endure,
The only cheap and universal cure!
Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health!
Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth!
Thou manna, which from Heaven we eat,
To every taste a several meat!
Thou strong retreat! thou sure-entail'd estate,
Which nought has power to alienate!
Thou pleasant, honest flatterer! for none
Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone!

Hope! thou first-fruits of happiness!
Thou gentle dawning of a bright success!
Thou good preparative, without which our joy
Does work too strong, and, whilst it cures, destroy!
Who out of Fortune's reach dost stand,
And art a blessing still in hand!
Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain,
We certain are to gain,

Whether she her bargain break or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill!

Brother of Faith! 'twixt whom and thee
The joys of Heaven and Earth divided be!
Though Faith be heir, and have the fixt estate,
Thy portion yet in movables is great.

Happiness itself's all one

In thee, or in possession!
Only the future's thine, the present his!
Thine's the more hard and noble bliss:
Best apprehender of our joys! which hast
So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast!

Hope! thou sad lovers' only friend!

Thou Way, that may'st dispute it with the End!
For love, I fear,'s a fruit that does delight
The taste itself less than the smell and sight.

Fruition more deceitful is

Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ;
Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee
Some other way again to thee;

And that's a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all soon return that travel out.




FELIX, qui patriis, &c.

Happy the man, whom the same humble place
HAPPY the man, who his whole time doth bound
Within th' inclosure of his little ground.
(Th' hereditary cottage of his race)
From his first rising infancy has known,
And by degrees sees gently bending down,
With natural propension, to that earth
Which both preserv'd his life, and gave him birth
Him no false distant lights, by fortune set,
Could ever into foolish wanderings get.
No change of consuls marks to him the year.
He never dangers either saw or fear'd.
The dreadful storms at sea he never heard.
He never heard the shrill alarms of war,
Or the worse noises of the lawyers' bar.
The change of seasons is his calendar.
The cold and heat, winter and summer shows,
And loves his old contemporary trees.
Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers, he knows -
He measures time by land-marks, and has found
For the whole day the dial of his ground.
A neighboring wood, born with himself, he sees,
He 'as only heard of near Verona's name,
And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame.
Does with a like concernment notice take
Of the Red-sea, and of Benacus' lake.
Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys
And sees a long posterity of boys.
About the spacious world let others roam,
The voyage, life, is longest made at home.


WELL, then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy

Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave,
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And, since love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian-angels are,

Only belov'd, and loving me!

Oh, fountains! when in you shall I

Myself, eas'd of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?
Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made

The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood; Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter.

The gods, when they descended, hither From Heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say,

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I,

And one dear she, live, and embracing die!
She, who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear-
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.


AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

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JOHN MILTON, a poet of the first rank in eminence, poem, of great elegance. He left Italy by the way was descended from an ancient family, settled at of Geneva, where he contracted an acquaintance Milton, in Oxfordshire. His father, whose deser- with two learned divines, John Diodati and Frederic tion of the Roman Catholic faith was the cause of Spanheim; and he returned through France, having his disinheritance, settled in London as a scrivener, been absent about a year and three months. and marrying a woman of good family, had two On his arrival, Milton found the nation agitated sons and a daughter. John, the eldest son, was by civil and religious disputes, which threatened a born in Bread-street, on December 9, 1608. He crisis; and as he had expressed himself impatient to received the rudiments of learning from a domestic be present on the theatre of contention, it has been tutor, Thomas Young, afterwards chaplain to the thought extraordinary that he did not immediately English merchants at Hamburg, whose merits are place himself in some active station. But his turn gratefully commemorated by his pupil, in a Latin was not military; his fortune precluded a seat in elegy. At a proper age he was sent to St. Paul's parliament; the pulpit he had declined; and for the school, and there began to distinguish himself by bar he had made no preparation. His taste and his intense application to study, as well as by his habits were altogether literary; for the present, poetical talents. In his sixteenth year he was re- therefore, he fixed himself in the metropolis, and moved to Christ's college, Cambridge, where he undertook the education of his sister's two sons, of was admitted a pensioner, under the tuition of Mr. the name of Philips. Soon after, he was applied to W. Chappel. by several parents to admit their children to the Of his course of studies in the university little is benefit of his tuition. He therefore took a comknown; but it appears, from several exercises pre- modious house in Aldersgate-street, and opened an served in his works, that he had acquired extraor- academy. Disapproving the plan of education in dinary skill in writing Latin verses, which are of a the public schools and universities, he deviated from purer taste than any preceding compositions of the it as widely as possible. He put into the hands kind by English scholars. He took the degrees of his scholars, instead of the common classics, such both of Bachelor and Master of Arts; the latter in Greek and Latin authors as treated on the arts and 1632, when he left Cambridge. He renounced his sciences, and on philosophy; thus expecting to inoriginal intention of entering the church, for which stil the knowledge of things with that of words. We he has given as a reason, that, "coming to some are not informed of the result of his plan; but it maturity of years, he had perceived what tyranny will appear singular that one who had himself drunk had invaded it;" which denotes a man early habitu-so deeply at the muse's fount, should withhold the ated to think and act for himself. draught from others. We learn, however, that he per

He now returned to his father, who had retired formed the task of instruction with great assiduity. from business to a residence at Horton, in Buck- Milton did not long suffer himself to lie under inghamshire; and he there passed five years in the the reproach of having neglected the public cause study of the best Roman and Grecian authors, and in his private pursuits; and, in 1641, he publishin the composition of some of his finest miscella-ed four treatises relative to church government, in neous poems. This was the period of his Allegro which he gave the preponderance to the Presbyand Penseroso, his Comus and Lycidas. That his terian form above the Episcopalian. Resuming the learning and talents had at this time attracted con- same controversy in the following year, he numsiderable notice, appears from an application made bered among his antagonists such men as Bishop to him from the Bridgewater family, which pro- Hall and Archbishop Usher. His father, who had duced his admirable masque of "Comus," perform- been disturbed by the king's troops, now came to ed in 1634, at Ludlow Castle, before the Earl of live with him; and the necessity of a female head Bridgewater, then Lord President of Wales; and of such a house, caused Milton, in 1643, to form a also by his "Arcades," part of an entertainment connexion with the daughter of Richard Powell, presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Esq., a magistrate of Oxfordshire. This was, in Harefield, by some of her family. several respects, an unhappy marriage; for his father

In 1638, he obtained his father's leave to improve in-law was a zealous royalist, and his wife had achimself by foreign travel, and set out for the con- customed herself to the jovial hospitality of that tinent. Passing through France, he proceeded to party. She had not, therefore, passed above a Italy, and spent a considerable time in that seat of month in her husband's house, when, having prothe arts and of literature. At Naples he was kindly cured an invitation from her father, she went to pass received by Manso, Marquis of Villa, who had the summer in his mansion. Milton's invitations long before deserved the gratitude of poets by his for her return were treated with contempt; upon patronage of Tasso; and, in return for a laudatory which, regarding her conduct as a desertion which listich of Manso, Milton addressed to him a Latin broke the nuptial contract, he determined to punish

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