What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings in?
O Ceremony, shew me but thy worth?
What is thy soul, O Adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd,
Than they in fearing.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flatt'ry? O be sick, great Greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? no, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtlely with a king's repose;
I am a king that find thee; and I know
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farséd1 title running 'fore the King,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world;
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all these laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread,
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,
But, like a lacquey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Hath the forehand and 'vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
1 Farsed is stuffed. (Lat. Farcio, I cram.) The tumid puffy titles with which a king's name is always introduced. This I think is the sense.-Johnson.
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots
What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
Henry V., Act IV., Scene 5.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries:
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL AND SATAN.
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight
Unspeakable: for who, though with the tongue
Of angels, can relate, or to what things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such a height
Of godlike power? for likest gods they seemed;
Stood they or moved, in stature, motion, arms,
Fit to decide the empire of great heaven.
Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood
In horror.
MILTON,2 Paradise Lost, VI., 296.
1 Edmund Waller (1605-1687) is chiefly remarkable as an improver of English versification. He was a man of cold and selfish character; his great wealth, elegant wit, and versatile talent, gave him considerable influence in the politics of the stormy times of the Commonwealth and Charles II. His poetry is chiefly amatory, polished in expression, but artificial and trifling.
2 John Milton (1608-1674) was born, of comparatively humble parentage, in London, the native city of several eminent poets. Capable of untiring study, he amassed in his youth an immense body of varied learning. A republican in principle, he warmly
ADAM'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
As new waked from soundest sleep,
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid,
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
Straight toward heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
And gazed awhile the ample sky: till, raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet: about me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods and sunny plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these
Creatures that lived, and moved, and walked, or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflowed.
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
With supple joints as lively vigour led:
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
Knew not to speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
Whate'er I saw. "Thou sun," said I, "fair light,
And thou enlightened earth, so fresh and gay;
Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains,
And ye that live and move, fair creatures, tell—
Tell, if
ye saw, how I came thus-how here?
Not of myself: by some great Maker then,
In goodness and in power pre-eminent :
Tell me, how may I know him-how adore;
From whom I have that thus I move and live,
And feel that I am happier than I know."
MILTON, Paradise Lost, VIII., 266.
embraced the side of the Parliament in the war with Charles I., and powerfully aided the popular cause by his political writings. In religion he leaned at first to the Presbyterians; afterwards he acted with the Independents; but, though his life was passed in continued devotion, and his mind deeply affected by spiritual influences, he did not connect himself externally with any Christian body. He disapproved of Cromwell's usurpation, and boldly and honestly remonstrated with him; yet such was the Protector's esteem for the poet, that he retained him as his Latin secretary. The Restoration reduced Milton almost to poverty; he never recovered the fortune he had lent to the Commonwealth. Blindness, caused by severe study, was added to his calamities. In this dark old age he published his "Paradise Lost," the noblest of epic poems. His other works are "Paradise Regained," the tragedy of "Samson Agonistes," and some smaller poems of great beauty and excellence. His prose works, consisting chiefly of controversial and historical writings, are voluminous.
SAMSON LAMENTS HIS BLINDNESS.
Oh loss of sight, of thee I most complain!
Blind among enemies! Oh worse than chains,
Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!
Light, the prime work of God, to me's extinct,
And all her various objects of delight
Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eas'd;
Inferior to the vilest now become,
Of man or worm: the vilest here excel me;
They creep, yet see: I dark, in light expos'd
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong;
Within doors or without, still as a fool
In pow'r of others, never in my own;
Scarce half I seem to live; dead more than half.
Oh dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse,
Without all hope of day!
Oh first great beam, and thou great word,
"Let there be light," and light was over all!
Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree;
The sun to me is dark,
And silent as the moon,
When she deserts the night,
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Since light so necessary is to life,
And almost life itself, if it be true
That light is in the soul,
She all in every part; why was the sight
To such a tender ball as th' eye confin'd,
So obvious and so easy to be quench'd?
And not, as feeling, through all parts diffus'd,
That she might look at will through every pore;
Then had I not been thus exil'd from light,
As in the land of darkness, yet in light,
To live a life half dead, a living death,
And bury'd; but, oh yet more miserable!
Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
MILTON, Samson Agonistes.
THE PLAN OF REDEMPTION, AND THE GOSPEL AS ITS VEHICLE.
Granting that we have sinn'd, and that th' offence
Of man is made against Omnipotence,
Some price that bears proportion must be paid;
And infinite with infinite be weigh'd.
See then the deist lost: remorse for vice
Not paid; or, paid, inadequate in price:
What farther means can reason now direct,
Or what relief from human wit expect?
That shews us sick; and sadly are we sure
Still to be sick, till Heaven reveal the cure:
If then Heaven's will must needs be understood,
Which must, if we want cure, and Heaven be good,
Let all records of will reveal'd be shewn;
With Scripture all in equal balance thrown,
And our one sacred book will be that one.
Proof needs not here; for whether we compare
That impious, idle, superstitious ware
Of rites, lustrations, offerings, which before,
In various ages, various countries bore,
With Christian faith and virtues, we shall find
None answering the great ends of human kind
But this one rule of life, that shews us best
How God may be appeased, and mortals blest.
Whether from length of time its worth we draw,
The word is scarce more ancient than the law :
Heaven's early care prescribed for every age;
First in the soul, and after in the page.
Or, whether more abstractedly we look,
Or on the writers, or the written book,
Whence, but from Heaven, could men unskill'd in arts,
In several ages born, in several parts,
Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why,
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice,
Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price.
If on the book itself we cast our view,
Concurrent heathens prove the story true:
The doctrine, miracles; which must convince,
For Heaven in them appeals to human sense :
And though they prove not, they confirm the cause,
When what is taught agrees with Nature's laws.
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