SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
Although familiar to every reader, this gathering of the beauties of the Poets would be incomplete without the following, from the fourth book of MILTON'S Paradise Lost.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion, like the god
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd 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? 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 'sdain'd 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?
O had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
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 arm'd.
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.
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. Ah 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 sceptre high advanced
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace my former state; how soon
Would height recal high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd submission swore! Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void:
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse,
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear
Short intermission, bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us, outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind, created, and for him this world.
So farewell hope; and, with hope, fear;
Farewell, remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good: by thee, at least,
Divided empire with heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign,
As man, ere long, and this new world, shall know.
ON A LADY SLANDERED.
By BARRY CORNWALL.
HER doom is writ: her name is grown
Familiar in the common mouth;
And she who was, when all unknown,
Like a sunbeam bursting from the south,
Is overshadow'd by her fate;
By others' envy, others' hate!
I loved her when her fame was clear;
I love her now her fame is dark:
Twice-thrice-a thousand times more dear
Is she, with Slander's serpent mark,
Than Beauty that did never know
Shadow,-neither shame nor woe.
Let who will admire,-adore,
Her whom vulgar crowds do praise;
I will love my Love the more
When she falls on evil days!
Truer, firmer will I be,
When the truth-like fail or flee.
Bird of mine! though rivers wide
And wild seas between us run,
Yet I'll some day come, with pride,
And serve thee, from sun to sun;
Meantime, all my wishes flee
To thy nest beyond the sea!
Mourn not! let a brighter doom
Breed no anguish in thy mind:
If the rose hath most perfume,
It hath still the thorn behind:
If the sun be at its height,
Think what follows,-certain night.
Murmur not! whatever ill
Cometh, am I not thy friend,
(In false times the firmer still)
Without changing, without end?
Ah! if one true friend be thine,
Dare not to repine!
THE noon-day sun is riding high,
Along the calm and cloudless sky;
The mantle of its gorgeous glow
Floats sleepily o'er all below:
And heaven and earth are brightly gay
Beneath the universal ray :
But not a wandering sunbeam falls
Within these high and hallow'd walls,
Which echo back my lonely tread,
Like solemn answers from the dead;
-The murmurs steal along the nave,
And die above my sister's grave.
'Tis evening-still I linger here:
Yet sorrow speaks not in a tear!
The silence is so sadly deep,
The place so pure, I dare not weep;
I sit as in a shapeless dream,
Where all is changing, save its theme;
And if a sigh will sometimes heave
A heart that loves, but may not grieve,
It seems as though the spirits round
Sent back reproachfully the sound :
And then I start, and think I have
A chiding from my sister's grave!
The feeling is a nameless one
With which I sit upon thy stone,
And read the tale I dare not breathe
Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath.
A simple tablet bears above
Brief record of a father's love,
And hints, in language yet more brief,
The story of a father's grief:
Around the night-breeze sadly plays
With 'scutcheons of the elder days;
And faded banners dimly wave
On high, right o'er my sister's grave!
Lost spirit!-thine was not a breast
To struggle vainly after rest;
Thou wert not made to bear the strife,
Nor labour through the storms of life;
Thy heart was in too warm a mould
To mingle with the dull and cold;
And every thought that wrong'd thy truth
Fell like a blight upon thy youth;
Thou should'st have been, for thy distress,
Less pure, and oh! more passionless ;
For sorrow's wasting mildew gave
Thy beauty to my sister's grave.
But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er-
Thy fair blue eyes shall weep no more;
'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form
Lies safe from every future storm.
Oft as I haunt the dreary gloom
That gathers round thy peaceful tomb,
I love to see the lightning stream
Along thy stone with fitful gleam ;
To fancy in each flash are given
Thy spirit's visitings from heaven;
And smile to hear the tempest rave
Above my sister's quiet grave !
LOVE'S MEMORY.
A sweet poem by MARY ANNE Browne.
I WORE a wreath; 'twas fresh and fair-
Rich roses in their crimson pride,
And the blue harebell flowers were there-
I wore and flung the wreath aside:
Too much did these bright blossoms speak
Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek.
I took my lute: methought its strain
Might wile the heavy hours along:
I strove to fill my heart and brain
With the sweet breath of ancient song:
In vain; whate'er I made my choice
Was fraught with thy bewitching voice.
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