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Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! But the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne’er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes ;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart;—the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.But no

—what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd) -
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
“ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;”
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressd, -
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day. some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell !-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

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MILTON. [It is not creditable to the present age that Milton is neglected as a poet, and that many persons approach the Paradise Lost' and the · Paradise Regained,' as if they were entering upon a hard and disagreeable task. This is one of the caprices of fashion which will not last. There is nothing in our language, with the exception perhaps of Shakspere, Spenser, and Wordsworth, that can so fill and satisfy the mind which conceives of poetry as possessing higher capacities than that of mere entertainment, as the poetry of Milton.

We cannot expect that his prose works should be equally read, nor have they any just claim to the pre-eminence of his poems. They are formed upon

Latin models; and, however eloquent and grand in occasional passages, are necessarily constrained and artificial. The extract which we give is from one of the most famous of his prose compositions, · Areopagitica, a Speech for the Liberty of unlicensed Printing.' John Milton was the son of John and Sarah Milton. · He was born on the 9th of December, 1608, in London. He was educated at St. Paul's School, and at Christ's College, Cambridge. seven years in the university, and afterwards resided for five years in his father's house, during which time it is supposed he wrote Comus,' and his other minor poems. In 1637 he travelled into Italy; he returned after an absence of fifteen months, and, whilst devoting himself to the education of his nephews, became deeply interested in the great political questions of his day. In 1641 he published his first political tract on Reformation.' In 1643 he married Mary Powell; but repudiated her shortly afterwards, and in consequence published his four * Treatises on Divorce.' Milton and his wife became reunited after a brief separation. In 1644 he published his · Tractate on Education,' and his . Areopagitica.' After the execution of Charles I., appeared

• the Tenure of Kings and Magistrates ;' and after his appointment as Latin secretary to Cromwell in 1649, his · Eiconoolastes,' and other tracts. In 1654 he became blind, after his second marriage. He married for the third time in 1660. He published Paradise Lost'in

1667, and · Paradise Regained' and Samson Ago. nistes' in 1671. He died on the 8th of November, 1674, and was buried in St. Giles's, Cripplegate.]

He spent

his tract on

Lords and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors ; a nation not slow and



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