To whom the goblin, full of wrath, replied―
"Art thou that traitor angel, art thou he,
Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then
Unbroken; and in proud, rebellious arms
Drew after him the third part of heaven's sons,
Conjured against the Highest; for which both thou
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned
To waste eternal days in woe and pain.
And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of Heaven,
Hell-doomed; and breath'st defiance here and scorn,
Where I reign king; and to enrage thee more,
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment,
False fugitive; and to thy speed add wings,
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue
Thy lingering; or with one stroke of this dart,
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before."-Milton.
SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
"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? 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 disdain'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 ordained
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.
Had'st thou the same freewill and power to stand?
Thou had'st. Whom hast thou then or what t' 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 threat'ning 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 seduc'd
With other promises, and other vaunts
Than to submit; boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent; Ah me! they littte knew
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 recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned 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, farewell 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.-Milton.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound!
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear, her hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, she knew not why,
Ev'n at the sound herself had made.
Next Anger rush'd his eyes on fire,
In light'nings, own'd his secret stings :
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air:
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas mild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it wisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still, through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close;
And hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung ;-but with a frown,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder down,
And with a with'ring look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious heat;
And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul, soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd;
And now it courted Love; now raving, call'd on Hate. With eyes uprais'd as one inspir'd.
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd:
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul.
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measures stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,
Her buskins gem'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green:
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beachen spear.
Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempes' vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love, fram'd with mirth, a gay fantastic round.
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest. reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound—
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate.-Collins.
HAMLET ON PARTING WITH THE PLAYERS.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous, that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
That, from her working, all his visage wann'd;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in 's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property, and most dear life,
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? ha!
Why, should I take it; for it cannot be.
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter; or ere this,
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: bloody, lecherous villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, kindless villain!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave;
That I, the son of a dear father murdered,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must like a wench, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a cursing like a very drab,
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