« AnteriorContinuar »
Beauties of the Evening.
I WALK, unseen, On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon; And oft as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far off curfew sound,
Swinging slow with solemn roar.
(John Milton was born in London, in 1608, and died in 1674. His magnificent poetry has been well described as a compound of the majesty of Homer and the sweetness of Virgil, for it was to him that the apt and oft-quoted lines were written :
“ Three poets, in three distant ages born,
To make a third she joined the other two." Sold for a pittance of fifteen pounds, neglected by the vitiated taste of a licentious age, and only recommended to notice long after the mighty hand that penned it had
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Milton. [From “Il Penseroso.”]
LONGFELLOW. (From Logan's “ Aphorisms."]
crumbled into dust, Milton's “ Paradise Lost has at length been enshrined as the greatest epic poem in the English language, and its writer as our great national poet. His second great epic, “ Para dise Regained,” was written at the suggestion of Elwood, the Quaker, who remikul to Milton, “ Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise lost; what hast thou to siy upon Paradise foun 1 ?" The minor poems of Milton – "Comus,” “ Lycidias," " L'Allegro,' “Il Penseroso," and the magnificent “ Samson Agonistes,” are now being generally read and appreciated, after two centuries of neglect and oblivion.
I KNOW a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This
grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken
grass, Thin grass, and kingcups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
A most gentle maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle maid ! and oft a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perched giddily
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
MY heart was heavy, for its trust
had been Abused, its kindness answered
with foul wrong : So, turning gloomily from my
fellow-men, One summer Sabbath-day I
strolled among The green mounds of the vil
lage-burial-place; Where, pondering how all human
love and hate Find one sad level—and how, soon or late, Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meeken'd face, And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave, Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, Awed for myself, and pitying my race, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!