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"I married a wife of late,
The more's my unhappy fate;
I married her for love,

As my fancy did me move,
And not for a worldly estate;

"But oh! the green sickness
Soon changed her likeness
And all her beauty did fail.
But 'tis not so

With those that go
Through frost and snow,
As all men know,

And carry the milking pail.”

Piscator-Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I'll give you another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song of you. Come, scholar, let Maudlin alone; do not you offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine hostess, to call us to supper. How now? Is my brother Peter come?

Hostess Yes, and a friend with him; they are both glad to hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you, and long to be at supper, for they be very hungry.

Piscator-What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers and meadows and flowers and fountains that we have met with since we met together? I have been told that if a man that was born blind could obtain to have his sight for but only one hour during his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory, either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it, that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object, to behold all the other various beauties this world could present to him. And this, and many other like blessings, we enjoy daily. And for most of them, because they be so common, most men forget to pay their praises; but let not us, because it is a sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made that sun and us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers and showers, and stomachs and meat, and content and leisure to go a fishing.

Well, scholar, I have almost tired myself, and, I fear, more than almost tired you; but I now see Tottenham High Cross, and our short walk thither shall put a period to my too long discourse, in which my meaning was and is to plant that in

your mind with which I labor to possess my own soul: that is, a meek and thankful heart. And to that end I have showed you riches, without them, do not make any man happy. But let me tell you that riches, with them, remove many fears and cares; and therefore my advice is that you endeavor to be honestly rich, or contentedly poor: but be sure that your riches be justly got, or you spoil all. For it is well said by Caussin, "He that loses his conscience, has nothing left that is worth keeping. Therefore be sure you look to that. And, in the next place, look to your health: and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable of; a blessing that money cannot buy, and therefore value it, and be thankful for it. As for money, which may be said to be the third blessing, neglect it not but note, that there is no necessity of being rich; for I told you there be as many miseries beyond riches, as on this side them and if you have a competence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thankful heart. I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that God has two dwellings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart. Which Almighty God grant to me, and to my honest scholar; and so you are welcome to Tottenham High Cross.

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Venator-Well, master, I thank you for all your good directions; but for none more than this last, of thankfulness, which I hope I shall never forget.

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Here I must part with you, here in this now sad place where I was so happy as first to meet you: but I shall long for the ninth of May; for then I hope again to enjoy your beloved company, at the appointed time and place. And now I wish for some somniferous potion, that might force me to sleep away the intermitted time, which will pass away with me as tediously as it does with men in sorrow; nevertheless, I will make it as short as I can by my hopes and wishes. And, my good master, I will not forget the doctrine which you told me Socrates taught his scholars, that they should not think to be honored so much for being philosophers, as to honor philosophy by their virtuous lives. You advised me to the like concerning angling, and I will endeavor to do so; and to live like those many worthy men of which you made mention in the former part of your discourse. This is my firm resolution; and as a pious man advised his friend, that to beget mortification he should frequent churches, and view monuments, and charnel

houses, and then and there consider how many dead bodies time had piled up at the gates of death: so when I would beget content, and increase confidence in the power, and wisdom, and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little living creatures, that are not only created but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him. This is my purpose; and so, let everything that hath breath praise the Lord: and let the blessing of St. Peter's master be with mine.

Piscator-And upon all that are lovers of virtue, and dare trust in his providence, and be quiet, and go a angling.

CHORUS OF ANGELS.

BY JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL.

(From "Lucifer," translated by Sir John Bowring.)

[JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL, the great Dutch poet and dramatist, known as "the Dutch Shakespeare," was born at Cologne, November 17, 1587. His parents, who were Anabaptists, had fled to Cologne from Antwerp to avoid the persecution of the Spanish government, and removed to Amsterdam in 1597. The son carried on his father's business of hosier, to which, however, his wife chiefly attended, and thus secured him leisure for his literary work. In 1657 he became a bankrupt, owing to bad management of his affairs by his eldest son, and the next year was forced to accept a clerkship in the public loan office, retiring with a pension in 1668 on account of old age. Among his dramatic works are: Translations or imitations of classic plays; the original dramas "Palamedes," "Gysbrecht van Aemstel," "Mary Stuart," " Jephtha"; and the dramatic poem "Lucifer" (1654), his most powerful work. He also excelled as a lyric poet. He died at Amsterdam in 1679.]

WHO sits above heaven's heights sublime,
Yet fills the grave's profoundest place,
Beyond eternity or time

Or the vast round of viewless space:
Who on Himself alone depends,
Immortal, glorious, but unseen,
And in His mighty being blends

What rolls around or flows within.
Of all we know not, all we know,
Prime source and origin, a sea
Whose waters poured on earth below

Wake blessing's brightest radiancy.

His power, love, wisdom, first exalted
And wakened from oblivion's birth
Yon starry arch, yon palace vaulted,

Yon heaven of heavens, to smile on earth.
From His resplendent majesty

We shade us, 'neath our sheltering wings, While awe-inspired and tremblingly

We praise the glorious King of Kings, With sight and sense confused and dim. O name, describe the Lord of Lords! The seraphs' praise shall hallow Him:Or is the theme too vast for words?

RESPONSE.

"Tis God! who pours the living glow
Of light, creation's fountain head:
Forgive the praise, too mean and low,
Or from the living or the dead!
No tongue Thy peerless name hath spoken,
No space can hold that awful Name;
The aspiring spirit's wing is broken; -
Thou wilt be, wert, and art the same.
Language is dumb,- Imagination,

Knowledge, and Science, helpless fall;
They are irreverent profanation,

And thou, O God! art all in all.

How vain on such a thought to dwell!

Who knows Thee? Thee, the All-unknown?

Can angels be thy oracle,

Who art, who art Thyself alone?

None, none can trace Thy course sublime,

For none can catch a ray from Thee,
The Splendor and the Source of Time,
The Eternal of Eternity!

The light of light outpoured conveys
Salvation in its flight elysian,
Brighter than even Thy mercy's rays;-
But vainly would our feeble vision

Aspire to Thee. From day to day

Age steals on us, but meets Thee never:

Thy power is life's support and stay,

We praise Thee, sing Thee, Lord! forever.
Holy! holy! holy! Praise,

Praise be His in every land!
Safety in His presence stays,

Sacred is His high command.

THREE SONNETS OF MILTON.

[For biographical sketch, see page 28.]

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT (1655).

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Ev'n 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 rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
"Doth God exact day labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

To CYRIAC SKINNER (1656).

Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear

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