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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,

A 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 brooding 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


They look'd up to that Heaven in vain,

That bounteous Heaven, which God did not re-

Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.

The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labour fruitless now;

Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever


"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 colours quite ;
But never will reduce the native white :

To all the ports of honour 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,
gave up I nothing gain,
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,)
For all that
And perish for the part which I retain.

"Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse!
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 labour serve,

And didst (if faith and labour 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 unwieldy plough,
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 plough.
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


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

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The ghosts, and monster-spirits, that did presume A body's privilege to assume,

Vanish again invisibly,

And bodies gain again their visibility.

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-colour'd coat.

With flame condens'd thou do'st thy jewels fix,
And solid colours 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,

nels slide.

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,

But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land o'erflows;
Takes there possession, and does make,

Of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake.

But the vast ocean of unbounded day,

In th' empyræan 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 cheek colour 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 sympathising 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 it

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 moveables 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.

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HAPPY the man, who his whole time doth bound
Within th' enclosure of his little ground.
Happy the man, whom the same humble place
(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.
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.
No change of consuls marks to him the year,
The change of seasons is his calendar.
The cold and heat, winter and summer shows;
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 neighbouring wood, born with himself, he sees,
And loves his old contemporary trees.
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

Önly 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?

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JOHN MILTON, a poet of the first rank in eminence, | was descended from an ancient family, settled at Milton, in Oxfordshire. His father, whose desertion of the Roman Catholic faith was the cause of his disinheritance, settled in London as a scrivener, and marrying a woman of good family, had two sons and a daughter. John, the eldest son, was born in Bread-street, on December 9. 1608. He received the rudiments of learning from a domestic tutor, Thomas Young, afterwards chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburg, whose merits are gratefully commemorated by his pupil, in a Latin elegy. At a proper age he was sent to St. Paul's school, and there began to distinguish himself by his intense application to study, as well as by his poetical talents. In his sixteenth year he was removed to Christ's college, Cambridge, where he was admitted a pensioner, under the tuition of Mr. W. Chappel.

Of his course of studies in the university little is known; but it appears, from several exercises preserved in his works, that he had acquired extraordinary skill in writing Latin verses, which are of a purer taste than any preceding compositions of the kind by English scholars. He took the degrees both of Bachelor and Master of Arts; the latter in 1632, when he left Cambridge. He renounced his original intention of entering the church, for which he has given as a reason, that, "coming to some maturity of years, he had perceived what tyranny had invaded it;" which denotes a man early habituated to think and act for himself.

He now returned to his father, who had retired from business to a residence at Horton, in Buckinghamshire; and he there passed five years in the study of the best Roman and Grecian authors, and in the composition of some of his finest miscellaneous poems. This was the period of his Allegro and Penseroso, his Comus and Lycidas. That his learning and talents had at this time attracted considerable notice, appears from an application made to him from the Bridgewater family, which produced his 'admirable masque of "Comus," performed in 1634, at Ludlow Castle, before the Earl of Bridgewater, then Lord President of Wales; and also by his "Arcades," part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Harefield, by some of her family.

In 1638, he obtained his father's leave to improve himself by foreign travel, and set out for the continent. Passing through France, he proceeded to Italy, and spent a considerable time in that seat of the arts and of literature. At Naples he was kindly received by Manso, Marquis of Villa, who had long before deserved the gratitude of poets by his patronage of Tasso; and, in return for a laudatory distich of Manso, Milton addressed to him a Latin

poem, of great elegance. He left Italy by the way of Geneva, where he contracted an acquaintance with two learned divines, John Diodati and Frederic Spanheim; and he returned through France, having been absent about a year and three months.

On his arrival, Milton found the nation agitated by civil and religious disputes, which threatened a crisis; and as he had expressed himself impatient to be present on the theatre of contention, it has been thought extraordinary that he did not immediately place himself in some active station. But his turn was not military; his fortune precluded a seat in parliament; the pulpit he had declined; and for the bar he had made no preparation. His taste and habits were altogether literary; for the present, therefore, he fixed himself in the metropolis, and undertook the education of his sister's two sons, of the name of Philips. Soon after, he was applied to by several parents to admit their children to the benefit of his tuition. He therefore took a commodious house in Aldersgate-street, and opened an academy. Disapproving the plan of education in the public schools and universities, he deviated from it as widely as possible. He put into the hands of his scholars, instead of the common classics, such Greek and Latin authors as treated on the arts and sciences, and on philosophy; thus expecting to instil the knowledge of things with that of words. We are not informed of the result of his plan; but it will appear singular that one who had himself drunk so deeply at the muse's fount, should withhold the draught from others. We learn, however, that he performed the task of instruction with great assiduity.

Milton did not long suffer himself to lie under the reproach of having neglected the public cause in his private pursuits; and, in 1641, he published four treatises relative to church-government, in which he gave the preponderance to the presbyterian form above the episcopalian. Resuming the same controversy in the following year, he numbered among his antagonists such men as Bishop Hall and Archbishop Usher. His father, who had been disturbed by the king's troops, now came to live with him; and the necessity of a female head of such a house, caused Milton, in 1643, to form a connection with the daughter of Richard Powell, Esq., a magistrate of Oxfordshire. This was, in several respects, an unhappy marriage; for his father-inlaw was a zealous royalist, and his wife had accustomed herself to the jovial hospitality of that party. She had not, therefore, passed above a month in her husband's house, when, having procured an invitation from her father, she went to pass the summer in his mansion. Milton's invitations for her return were treated with contempt; upon which, regarding her conduct as a desertion which broke the nuptial contract, he determined to punish

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