EXERCISE CXXXVIII.

SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.

I.

MILTON.*

O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice; and add thy name,
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once-above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King.

Ah, wherefore?

II.

He deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none, nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks?
How due!-yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high,
I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome still paying, still to owe:
Forgetful what from him I still received;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing, owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged: what burden then?

III.

O, had his powerful destiny ordained

Me some inferior angel, I had stood

*See Exercise preceding.

Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not?-some other power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within,
Or from without, to all temptations armed.

Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst whom hast thou, then, or what to accuse,
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?

Be, then, his love accursed; since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe:

Nay, cursed be thou; since, against his, thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.

IV.

Me miserable!—which way shall I fly?
Infinite wrath and infinite despair!
Which way I fly, is hell; myself am hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide;
To which the hell I suffer, seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last, relent; is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent!

V.

Ay, me! they little know

How dearly I abide that boast so vain;
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
The lower still I fall; only supreme
In misery: such joy ambition finds!

EXERCISE CXXXIX.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS was born in Liverpool, September 25 th, 1794, and died near Dublin, May 12th, 1835. Her early productions, for she wrote at a very early age,-were not well received. Her maiden name was Browne. In 1812 she was married to Captain Hemans, of the army. The match proving unhappy, and the captain's health infirm, he went, in 1818, to reside in Italy, and she, with her five sons, to live with her mother, in Wales. The separation was understood to be permanent, and proved so. From that time Mrs. Hemans gave herself diligently to authorship: studying, in furtherance of her literary aims, the German and some other foreign languages, and constantly contributing to various periodicals. "If taste and elegance," says a most accomplished critic, "be titles to enduring fame, we might venture securely to promise that rich boon to the author before us [Mrs. Hemans]; for we do not hesitate to say, that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses, that our literature has yet to boast of."

SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

FELICIA HEMANS.

A Prison in the Palace of the Luxembourg.*
D'AUBIGNE, an aged royalist, and BLANCHE, his daughter.
Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigne. Yes, my poor child!

They send us home!

Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,

And the gray turret of our own chateau,†

Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,

* The Luxembourg is one of those magnificent palaces for which Paris is celebrated above every other capital in Europe. It was completed in 1620. During the terrible times of the French Revolution, it was converted into a prison.

Chateau (shat to') a castle.

Welcome us back at last?

But how is this?

Father thy glance is clouded; on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigne. Upon my brow, dear girl,

There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives

And recognizes, in submissive awe,

The summons of his God.

Blanche. Thou dost not mean,—

No, no! it can not be! Didst thou not say,
They send us home?

D'Aubigne. Where is the spirit's home?
Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days,
Where should it be, but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power?
Where, but in Heaven?

Blanche. My Father!

D'Aubigne. We must die!

We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile

Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart.

Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much

From mine own noble Blanche ?

Blanche. Oh! clasp me fast!

Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms! Father!

D'Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go; Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steeped In noble blood, the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully

Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live? Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,

To quit forever the dishonored soil,

The burdened air? Our God upon the cross,
Our king upon the scaffold; let us think
Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

Blanche. A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear, honored head!

Oh! thou, the kind, and gracious! whom all eyes Blessed, as they looked upon! Speak yet again! Say, will they part us?

D'Aubigne. No, my Blanche; in death We shall not be divided.

Blanche. Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me.

His light before me to the last.

I shall see

And when,

Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aubigne. Oh! swiftly now,

And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,

Comes down the mortal stroke.

But of that hour,

As yet, I know not. Each low, throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity.

Blanche. My father! lay thy hand

On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul
Ere we are called.

D'Aubigne. If I may speak through tears,
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!—thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lowly soul,
A stainless lily in my widowed house,

There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality! Meek child of God!

I bless thee! He will bless thee! In his love