Guid. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Guid. Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Guid. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guid. Ghost, unlaid, forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consumnration have!
And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter BELARIUS, with the body of CLOTEN.

Guid. We have done our obsequies: Come lay him down.
Bel. Here's a few flowers, but about midnight, more:
The herbs, that have on them cold dew o' the night,
Are strewings fitt'st for graves.-Upon their faces :--
You were as flowers, now wither'd: even so
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strew.-
Come on, away. Apart upon our knees.

-The ground, that gave them first, has them again:
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

THE MISERY OF LEAR!

A part of the heath, with a hovel.

FOOL.

Enter LEAR, KENT, and

Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night's too rough

For nature to endure.

Lear. Let me alone.

Kent. Good my lord, enter here.

Lear. Wilt break my heart?

[storm.

Kent. I'd rather break mine own; good my lord, enter.
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm

Invades us to the skin: so 'tis to thee;

But where the greater malady is fix'd,

The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear;

But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,

Thou'dst meet the bear i'the mouth. When the mind's free

The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there.-Filial ingratitude!
Is it not, as this mouth should tear this hand,
For lifting food to't?-But I will punish home;
No, I will weep no more.-In such a night,
To shut me out:-Pour on; I will endure!—

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!-
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,-
O, that way, madness lies; let me shun that;

Ivo more of that.

Kent. Good my lord, enter here.

Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease; This tempest will not give me leave to ponder

On things would hurt me more.-But I'll go in:

In, boy; go first.-[To the FooL.] You houseless poverty,-Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep.

[FOOL goes in

Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel;
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heaven's more just.

SCENE FROM LEAR ON DOVER HILL.

The country near Dover. Enter GLOSTER, and EDGAR, dressed like a Peasant.

Glo. When shall we come to the top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climb up it now: look, how we labor.

Glo. Methinks, the ground is even.

Edg. Horrible steep:

Hark, do you hear the sea?

Glo. No, truly.

Edg. Why, then

your

other senses grow imperfect

By your eyes' anguish.

Glo. So may it be, indeed:

Methinks, thy voice is alter'd; and thou

In better phrase, and matter, than thou didst.

Edg. You are much deceiv'd; in nothing am I chang'd,

But in my garments.

Glo. Methinks, you are better spoken.

Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place:-stand still-how fearful

And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon' tall anchoring bark,
Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high:-I'll look no more;

est my brain turr, and the deficient sight Topple do'vn headlong.

Glo. Se me where you stand.

Edg. Give me your hand: You are now within a fool
Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon
Would I not leap upright.

Glo. Let go my hand.

Here, friend, is another purse: in it a jewel

Well worth a poor man's taking: Fairies, and gods,
Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off;

Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
Edg. Now fare you well, good sir.

Glo. With all my heart.

Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair, Is done to cure it.

Glo. O, you mighty gods!

This world I do renounce; and in your sights,
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could bear it longer, and not fall

To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,
My snuff, and loathed part of nature, should
Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O bless him!-
Now, fellow, fare thee well.

Edg. Gone, sir? farewell.—

[Seems to go.

[He leaps, and falls along.

And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The treasury of life, when life itself

Yields to the theft: Had he been where he thought,
By this, had thought been past.-Alive, or dead?

Ho, you sir! friend!-Hear

you, Sir?-speak!

Thus might he pass indeed;-Yet he revives :

What are you sir?

Glo. Away, and let me die.

Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossomer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating,

Thou hadst shivered like an egg: but thou dost breathe ; Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude,

Which thou hast perpendicularly fell;

Thy life's a miracle: Speak yet again.

Glo. But have I fallen, or no?

Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn :

Look up a-height;-the shrill-gorg'd lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Glo. Alack, I have no eyes.

Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit,

To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage,
And frustrate his proud will.

JOHN MILTON.

Born 1608-Died 1674.

FROM his sixteenth year Milton was educated at the university of Cambridge. At the age of twentyfour he returned to the beautiful residence of his father, at Horton in Buckinghamshire, where he spent five years in the study of the Greek and Latin classics, and in the composition of his most beautiful minor poetry-the Allegro and Penseroso, Comus and Lycidas. In 1638 he travelled in France and Italy, and after an absence of more than a year, returned to his native country, then agitated by the differences between the king and parliament, and on the eve of the most violent civil commotions. Milton took part with the Puritans and the people of England, and applied his mind to the contest in his controversial writings with a power and vigour that have seldom been equalled. He was Latin Secretary to Cromwell till the death of the Protector in 1658. At the restoration of Charles II. in 1660, he was obliged to conceal himself, till the publication of the act of oblivion released him from danger. After this period, being retired from all public stations, he devoted himself exclusively to study, and especially to the composition of Paradise Lost, the idea of which he had conceived as early as 1642. It was finished in 1665.

The foundation of Milton's blindness was laid by his imprudent and incessant devotion to study in his earlier years; but this misfortune was immediately occasioned in 1651 by too great intensity of application in the performance of his Defensio Populi Anglicani, or Defence of the People of England.

Milton's life, in connexion with the age in which he lived, forms one of the very finest subjects of biographical and historical study. In the unjust and defective representation of Dr Johnson, his character appears exceedingly unamiable; in reality it was noble and delightful; obscured, indeed, by blemishes, but these not in themselves great, and rather reflected upon him by the circumstances in which he was placed, than growing out of the natural temper and constitution of his mind. His disposition was generous, equable, and cheerful, into whatever occasional harshness it might have been betrayed in the midst of external tumult and discord. And there was an habitual loftiness, a dignity, a virtuous severity in his spirit, and a grandeur in all his conceptions, which invests his general character with the attribute most peculiar to his poetry—that of the sublime.

Milton has diffused the spirit of piety over his writings, and he seems himself to have lived,

'As ever in his great Taskmaster's eye.'

To what degree of eminence or perfection he cultivated the in

fluence of religion in his own bosom it is not in the power of human ignorance to decide. Dr Johnson observes that 'Milton, who appears to have had full conviction of the truth of Christianity, and to have regarded the Holy Scriptures with the profoundest veneration, and to have been untainted with any heretical peculiarity of opinion, and to have lived in a confirmed belief of the immediate and occasional agency of Providence, yet grew old without any visible worship. In the distribution of his hours there was no hour of prayer either solitary or with his household; omitting public prayers, he omitted all. Who, but Omniscience, can speak thus? A more humble and charitable judgment would certainly hesitate an assent to this sweeping conclusion in regard to so excellent a man. Indeed, the rash critic himself afterwards adds, "That he lived without prayer can hardly be affirmed; his studies and meditations were a continual prayer.'

To remark upon Milton's poetical excellence seems almost needless. Yet it is undoubtedly true that the great masterpiece of his genius is praised where it is not read; and by many, perhaps by most readers, he is even now known and admired only in some of his exquisite minor productions. Paradise Lost must be studied, before its sublimity and beauty can be truly relished. Whatever delightful qualities can be found in his shorter productions, their exceeding richness and melody of language, their sweetness of fancy, their picturesque epithets, their elegance, their paintings of natural scenery, are here combined in an equal or superior degree; while we meet also with a vivid grandeur of description which is sometimes almost terrific, magnificent imagery, intense energy both in thought and expression, perfect conception and delineation of character, genuine pathos, learning, stateliness, moral sublimity, and all in a style elaborate and powerful, a blank verse, though occasionally harsh and inverted, yet superior in harmony and variety to that of every other poet.

If the shorter poetry of Milton be often perused with attention till the mind is imbued with its spirit, the pupil may then come to the study of Paradise Lost, with the greatest benefit and delight.

SATAN'S APPROACH TO THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

THUS while he spake, each passion dimm'd his face
Thrice chang'd with pale ire, envy, and despair;
Which marr'd his borrow'd visage, and betray'd
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld:

For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
Are ever clear. Whereof he soon aware,
Each perturbation smooth'd with outward calm,
Artificer of fraud; and was the first