can study either the life or the writings of the great poet and patriot without aspiring to emulate, not indeed the sublime works with which his genius has enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he labored for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every private calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on temptation and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his country and with his fame. MACAULAY.'

192. HYMN OF OUR FIRST PARENTS.

1 THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous, then,
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works: yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extŏl
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.

2. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world bōth eye and soul,
Acknowledge Him thy greater; sound His praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the Orient sun, now fliest
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move

1See Biographical Sketch, p. 155.

In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise who out of darkness call'd up light.
3. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth.

Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle multiform, and mix.

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor❜d sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance His praise.

4. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune His praise;
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise.

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk

The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep,

Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,

Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise. MILTON..

JOHN MILTON, one of the greatest of all poets and scholars, was born in London on the 9th of December, 1608. His father, liberally educated and from a good family, having been disinherited for embracing Protestantism, became a scrivener, and acquired a competent fortune. The firmness and the sufferings of the father for conscience' sake were not lost upon the son, who became a stern, unbending champion of religious freedom. MILTON was educated with great care. He studied ancient and modern languages, delighted in poetical reading, and cultivated the musical taste which he inherited from his father. At fifteen he was sent to St. Paul's School, London, and two years later to Christ's College, Cambridge, where he graduated in due course. He wrote several poems at an early age. His " Hymn on the Nativity," composed in his twenty-first year, is one of the noblest of his works, and perhaps the finest lyric in the English language. Leaving the university in 1632, he went to the house of his father, at Hutton in Buckinghamshire, where he lived five years, studying classical literature and writing poems. During this happy period of his life he wrote "L'Alle

gro," ," "Il Penseroso," "Arcades," "Lycidas," and "Comus." In 1638 the poet visited the Continent, where he remained fifteen months, principally in Italy and France. His study of the works of art during this period probably suggested some of his best poetical creations. On his return to England in 1639 he took up his residence in London. The next twenty years, during the Civil War, the Commonwealth, and the Protectorate, the poet's lyre was mute. A Republican in politics and an Independent in religion, during this stormy period he threw himself promptly and fearlessly into the vortex of the struggle, and, as a controversialist, enrolled his name among the noblest and most eloquent of the writers of old English prose. In 1643 MILTON married MARY POWELL, the daughter of a high cavalier of Oxfordshire. In 1649 he was appointed Foreign or Latin Secretary to the Council of State, and retained the same position during the Protectorate. For ten years his eyesight had been failing, when, in 1652, he became totally blind. About the same period his first wife died, but he married soon after. His second wife, CATHARINE WOODCOCK, died in 1656. The Restoration of 1660 consigned the poet, for the last fourteen years of his life, to an obscurity which gave him leisure to complete the mighty poetical task which was to secure him an immortality of literary fame. In 1664 he married his third wife, ELIZABETH MINSHUL, of a good Cheshire family. In 1665 he completed "Paradise Lost," which was first published in 1667, In 1671 appeared the "Paradise Regained," to which was subjoined "Samson Agonistes." He died on the 8th of November, 1674. For a further description of MILTON and his poetry, the reader is referred to the two exercises immediately preceding the above

193. THE PHRENSY OF ORRA.

Hartman. Is she well?

Theobald. Her body is.

Hart. And not her mind? Oh, direst wreck of all!
That noble mind!-But 'tis some passing seizure
Some powerful movement of a trănsient nature;
It is not madness!

Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction: let us call it so;
Give it no other name.

Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she beholds us, She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing,

Be gradually restored

Alice. Let me go to her.

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee;

I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman,
Go in and lead her forth.

Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light!
Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day.

Orra. Have cocks crow'd yet?

Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already

Their matin sound.

Look up to the blue sky— Is it not daylight? And these green boughs Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense Tells thee it is the cheerful early day.

Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turns. Rising between the gulfy dells of night,

Like whiten'd billōws on a gloomy sea.

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark,
And will-o'-the wisp his dancing taper light,

They will not come again. [Bending her ear to the ground
Hark, hark! aye, hark!

They are all there: I hear their hollow sound

Full many a fathom down.

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return—
They are forever gone. Be well assured

Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home,
With crackling fagots on thy midnight fire,
Blazing like day around thee; and thy friends—
Thy living, loving friends-still by thy side,
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra!
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them?
Orra. No, no! athwart the wavering, garish light,
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing.
Elea. My gentle Orra, hast thou then forgot me?
Dost not thou know my voice?

Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd.
For there be those who sit in cheerful halls,

And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds;
And once I lived with such; some years gone by,-

I wot not now how long.

Hughobert. Keen words that rend my heart: thou hadst a home,

And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection.

Urston. Be more composed, my lord; some faint remembrance Returns upon her with the well-known sound

Of voices once familiar to her ear.

Let Alice sing to her some favorite tune

That may lost thoughts recall.

[ALICE sings.

Orra. Ha, ha! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely.

Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds?
It lures not me.-I know thee well enough:
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat,
And fleshless heads nod to thee.-Off, I say!
Why are ye here? That is the blessed sun.

Elea. Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus:
These are the voices of thy loving friends
That speak to thee; this is a friendly hand
That presses thine so kindly.

Hart. Oh, grievous state! what terror seizes thee
Orra. Take it away! It was the swathed dead;
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch.
Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now:
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things;
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds,
I'll bide the trooping of unearthly steps,

With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength.

Hugh. A murderer is a guiltless wretch to me.
Hart. Be patient; 'tis a momentary pitch;

Let me encounter it.

I

Orra. Take off from me thy strangely fasten'd eye;
may not look upon thee-yět I must.

Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake?
Something of horrid power within thee dwells.
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in,
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling cōre.
Spare me! oh spare me, Being of strange power,
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay.

Elea. Alas, the piteous sight! to see her thus,
The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra!

Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile! Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state The slightest shadow of a base control?

[Raising ORRA from the ground. No; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent: As honor'd art thou with thy broken stem And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride. I've seen thee worship'd like a regal dame, With every studied form of mark'd devotion,