gan and sung, or heard another sing; then studied till six; then entertained visiters till eight; then supped; and, after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water, went to bed." No writer has been so uniformly judged through the medium of political prejudices and partialities. If Johnson has fixed lasting disgrace on himself in offering outrage to the venerable memory of Milton, other biographers have exhibited him as only "a little lower than the angels." "The works of Milton," says one of the most eloquent of his modern admirers, "are a perpetual invocation to the Muses, a hymn to Fame. He seized the pen with a hand just warm from the touch of the ark of faith. His religious zeal infused its character into his imagination, so that he devotes himself with the same sense of duty to the cultivation of his genius as he did to the exercise of virtue or the good of his country." The spirit of the poet, the patriot, and the prophet, vied with each other in his. breast. His mind appears to have held equal communion with the inspired writers and with the bards and sages of ancient Greece and Rome, "Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides, And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old." He dedicates his genius and his learning to the service of his God as solemnly as Hannah devoted the child of her prayers to the house of the Lord, "there to abide forever." His sanctified ambition was for the performance of such a work as after times would not willingly let die. "A work," to use his own eloquent language," not to be raised from the heat of youth or the vapours of wine, like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the trencher fury of a rhym ing parasite, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame Memory and her syren daughters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit which can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases." Such was Milton's ideal conception of his own immortal work. Any collection of sacred poetry in which his name was omitted would exhibit a dreary blank; but Milton's works are so generally diffused that it would be superfluous to multiply specimens -the selection in this volume is therefore confined to some smaller pieces which are not even yet so well known as they ought to be. ON THE MASSACRE OF THE PROTESTANTS IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. The moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian wo. SONNET TO A LADY. LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill with heavenly truth, The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth: Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame, Therefore be sure Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, THE NATIVITY. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around : The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng : And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, N His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Bending one way their precious influence; For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until the Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need: He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then, That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow : He, who with all heaven's heraldry whilere Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just. W'ere lost in death, till he, that dwelt above, And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but, O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. |