in blank verse to the ordinary mass of readers, we cannot but regard it as singularly creditable to the age and country, that the venerable poet lived to revise its second edition, and that, within eleven years from the date of its publication, three thousand copies had been purchased. Milton died on the 8th of November 1674, in the sixtysixth year of his age, leaving a memory of which his country may justly be proud. His private virtue was no less than his great genius, learning, and wonderful intellectual vigour. No mean political tergiversation stains his great name. He advocated liberty at first, "for the purpose of helping the Puritans, who were inferior to the prelates in learning;" and when fortune had again changed, and the fickle populace were revelling in their acclamations at the "restoration of legitimacy," he remained true to the cause of liberty, and died nobler in his poverty than if the treasures of England had been expended in weaving laurels for his brow. With Milton closes one great epoch of England's intellectual harvest-time. That which succeeded to it, amid all its scintillations of genius, was an era of little men, when placed alongside of those who constitute the giant intellects of England's literary peers during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. POETS OF THE ELIZABETHAN AGE. SPRING. THE Sweet season that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs, The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he flings, The fishes fleet with new-repaired scale: The adder all her slough away she flings, The swift swallow pursues the flies small, The busy bee her honey now she mings, Winter is worn that was the flower's bale. And thus I see, among those pleasant things, Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. HOWARD. THE MEANS OF A HAPPY LIFE. MARTIAL, the things that do attain The happy life, be these I find, The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; The mean diet, no delicate fare; The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night; Contented with thine own estate, Nor wish for death, nor fear his might. HOWARD. THE PILGRIMAGE. GIVE me my scallop shell of quiet, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; RALEIGH. LINES WRITTEN IN HIS BIBLE THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION. E'EN Such is time, which takes in trust Which in the dark and silent grave, But from which grave, and earth, and dust, RALEIGH. UNA AND THE LION. ONE day, nigh weary of the irksome way, It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood: To have at once devoured her tender corpse: But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, And with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet, And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue; O how can beauty master the most strong, "The lion, lord of every beast in field," How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her, that him loved, and ever most adored As the god of my life! why hath he me abhorred?" Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; To seek her strayed champion if she might attain. |