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As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So, what our Earth, and what our Heaven, denies,
Our ever-constant friend, the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow:
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of every vine.

To dig for wealth, we weary not our limbs, Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow, We plow the deep, and reap what others sow.

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds; Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds: Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown, Could never make this island all her own.

Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too,
France-conquering Henry, flourish'd, and now you;
For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide
Another yet: a world reserv'd for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue

He safely, might old troops to battle lead, Against th' unwarlike Persian and the Mede, Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field, More spoils than honor to the victor yield.

A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

Whom the old Roman wall, so ill confin'd,
With a new chain of garrisons you bind :
Here foreign gold no more shall make them come;
Our English iron holds them fast at home.

They, that henceforth must be content to know.
No warmer region than their hills of snow,
May blame the sun; but must extol your grace,
Which in our senate hath allow'd them place.

Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown,
Falling they rise, to be with us made one :
So kind dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.

Like favor find the Irish, with like fate
Advanc'd to be a portion of our state;
While by your valor, and your bounteous mind,
Nations divided by the sea are join'd.

Holland, to gain your friendship, is content
To be our out-guard on the continent:
She from her fellow-provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse,
Preventing posts, the terror and the news,
Our neighbor princes trembled at their roar :
But our conjunction makes them tremble more

Your never-failing sword made war to cease, And now you heal us with the acts of peace; Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone :
Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can, whom he conquers, spare.

To pardon, willing, and to punish, loth,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both
Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.

When Fate or error had our age misled,
And o'er this nation such confusion spread;
The only cure, which could from Heaven come down
Was so much power and piety in one.

One! whose extraction from an ancient line
Gives hope again, that well-born men may shine.
The meanest in your nature, mild and good;
The noblest rest secured in your blood.

Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace A mind proportion'd to such things as these ; How such a ruling spirit you could restrain, And practise first over yourself to reign.

Your private life did a just pattern give,
How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should live;
Born to command, your princely virtues slept,
Like humble David's, while the flock he kept.

But when your troubled country call'd you forth,
Your flaming courage and your matchless worth,
Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend,
To fierce contention gave a prosperous end.

Still, as you rise, the state, exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you;
Chang'd like the world's great scene! when without
noise,

The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys.

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read your story
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.

This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him, went back to blood and rage,
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave e dim light to violence and wars;
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword
Which of the conquer'd world had made them lori
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You! that had taught them to subdue their foes, Could order teach, and their high spirits compose To every duty could their minds engage, Provoke their courage, and command their rage

So, when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil opprest,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace!
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

Tell of towns storm'd, of armies over-run,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won,
How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse.
And every conqueror creates a Muse:
Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing.
But there, my lord! we'll bays and olive bring

To crown your head, while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside;
While all your neighbor princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow.

Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate.
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty, if it prove
But as long-liv'd as present love

THE STORY OF

PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE

APPLIED.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues;
With numbers, such as Phoebus' self might use!
Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads.
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,

Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now, approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:
All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong
Attend his passion, and approve his song..
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays

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Beauty like a shadow flies,
And our youth before us dies.
Or, would youth and beauty stay,
Love hath wings, and will away.
Love hath swifter wings than Time;
Change in love to Heaven does climb:
Gods, that never change their state,
Vary oft their love and hate..

Phyllis to this truth we owe
All the love betwixt us two:
Let not you and I inquire,
What has been our past desire;

On what shepherd you have smil'd,
Or what nymphs I have beguil'd:
Leave it to the planets too,
What we shall hereafter do:

For the joys we now may prove,
Take advice of present love.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT, which her slender waist confin'd,
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.

TO ZELINDA.

FAIREST piece of well-form'd earth!
Urge not thus your haughty birth;
The power which you have o'er us, lies
Not in your race, but in your eyes.
None but a prince!-Alas! that voice
Confines you to a narrow choice.
Should you no honey vow to taste,
But what the master-bees have plac'd
In compass of their cells, how small
A portion to your share would fall!

Nor all appear, among those few,
Worthy the stock from whence they grew
The sap, which at the root is bred,
In trees, through all the boughs is spread
But virtues, which in parent shine,
Make not like progress through the line.
"Tis not from whom, but where, we live:
The place does oft those graces give.
Great Julius, on the mountains bred,
A flock perhaps, or herd, had led;
He, that the world subdued, had been
But the best wrestler on the green.
"Tis art, and knowledge, which draw forth
The hidden seeds of native worth:

They blow those sparks, and make them rise
Into such flames as touch the skies.
To the old heroes hence was given
A pedigree, which reach'd to heaven.
Of mortal seed they were not held,
Which other mortals so excell'd.
And beauty too, in such excess
As yours, Želinda! claims no less.
Smile.but on me, and you shall scorn,
Henceforth, to be of princes born.

I can describe the shady grove,
Where your lov'd mother slept with Jove,
And yet excuse the faultless dame,
Caught with her spouse s shape and name:
Thy matchless form will credit bring
To all the wonders I shall sing.

TO A LADY,

SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

CHLORIS, yourself you so excel,

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell

Of my own teaching, I am caught.

That eagle's fate and mine are one,

Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espy'd a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Had Echo with so sweet a grace Narcissus' loud complaints return'd Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd

* Alexander.

JOHN MILTON.

has been severely criticised. After the restoration, his "Defensio" and "Eikonoklastes" (a reply to the famous "Eikon Basilike") were burned by the hangman.

JOHN MILTON was born in London, December | 9, 1608. His father, who was descended from a wealthy Catholic family, had been disinherited for embracing Protestantism, and thereafter followed the occupation of a scrivener. He had considerable musical talent, and composed the psalm-tunes "York" and "Norwich." John was thoroughly educated, first by a private tutor, then at St. Paul's School, London, and finally at Cambridge, where he received the degree of Master of Arts in 1632. At the university he was noted for his skill in composing Latin verses. He then spent five years in retirement at his father's house in Horton, Buckinghamshire, studying the Greek and Latin classics. Here his best poems-"Lycidas," "L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso," and " Čomus". -were written. The last named was performed in 1634, at Lud-dise Lost" was the result. It was published in low Castle, before the Earl of Bridgewater, then Lord-President of Wales.

In 1638 Milton travelled in France, Italy, and Switzerland. At Naples he was entertained by Manso, Marquis of Villa, the patron of Tasso. At Geneva he made the acquaintance of Spanheim and Diodati. He returned to England in 1639, and set up a private school in London. Two years later he engaged in the current controversies, and in 1642 published his treatises on reformation and church government.

In 1643 he married Mary Powell, daughter of a royalist of Oxfordshire, who found his studious life and quiet home a severe contrast to her former freedom and gayety. At the end of the honeymoon she went back to her father's for a visit, and refused to return. Thereupon Milton repudiated her, and published a treatise on "Divorce," and one on "The Four Chief Places in Scripture which treat of Marriage." He then began paying his addresses to a young lady, but an unexpected meeting with his wife ended in a reconciliation.

In 1649 he published a work justifying the execution of King Charles, and soon after he was appointed Latin secretary to the Council of State. In 1653, his wife died, leaving three daughters, and in 1656 he married a second, who lived but little more than a year. In memory of her he wrote the sonnet included among the selections which follow.

About 1654 he became totally blind, the result of excessive study. On the publication of the Act of Oblivion, he married a third wife, Elizabeth Minshull, and retired to a house in Artillery Park, where he set about the execution of a design he had long cherished and had confidently announced-that of writing a great poem which would be considered one of the glories of his country. He first contemplated writing it in the form of a mystery, then of a drama, and considered subjects drawn from British history, but finally concluded to make it a regular epic, on the fall of man; and "Para

1667, and he received £5 for it, with the promise of an equal sum when the sale should reach 1,300 copies.

The poem made its way slowly, but in the course of half a century had gained recognition as an English classic. Forty-five years after its publication, Addison analyzed and lauded it in a series of articles in the Spectator. In 1825 Macaulay made his debut as an essayist with an elaborate eulogy on Milton and his poetry, especially praising "Paradise Lost."

On the other hand, the wits of the time laughed at the cumbrous epic. Waller remarked: "The old blind schoolmaster, John Milton, hath written a tedious poem on the fall of man; which, if its great length be not accounted for a merit, it hath no other." In our own day, it has been taken in hand by M. Taine, who treats it with a true Frenchman's acuteness and lack of reverence. He says: "This Adam entered Paradise via England. There he learned respectability, and there he studied moral speechifying. Let us hear this man before he has tasted of the tree of knowledge. A bachelor of arts, in his introductory address, could not utter more fitly and nobly a greater number of pithless sentences. . . . This Miltonic Deity is only a schoolmaster, who, foreseeing the fault of his pupil, tells him beforehand the grammar rule, so as to have the pleasure of scolding him without discussion. Moreover, like a good politician, he had a second motive, just as with his angels, 'For state, as sovran king; and to inure our prompt obedience.' The word is out; we see what Milton's heaven is; a Whitehall filled with bedizened footmen.

The learned Frenchman, Claude de Saumaire, having been employed to write a work in favor of the royal cause, Milton answered it by his "Defensio pro Populo Anglicano," in which he displayed a command of logic and a genius for abuse which at once made him famous, both at Milton describes the tables, the home and abroad. The government made him dishes, the wine, the vessels. It is a popular a present of £1,000 for the service, while Sau- festival. I miss the fireworks, the bell-ringing, maire's book was suppressed by the government as in London, and I can fancy that all would of Holland, where it had been printed. Milton drink to the health of the new king. . . . What was an enthusiastic admirer of Cromwell, and a heaven! It is enough to disgust one with remained true to him to the last, for which he paradise. We have orders of the day, a hier

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