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suggestion, called upon Thomas himself to , blood, and not water, will drown the impious make inquiries in regard to Lucy. He found sinners. As for ourselves, brother, let us him in a sumptuous suite of apartments in the watch and pray, that we may be prepared on neighborhood of Whitehall. On hearing the the day of judgment, when the Lord calls us. Puritan's accusation, the youth burst into a For the time being we must submit to His will. peal of laughter.

I can no longer stay in London ; my family is “What ! you charge me with abducting a waiting for me at Huntingdon. I must, theregirl, and that your own daughter, friend Hen- fore, desist from further steps, by which we derson? What do you take me for? If we should, moreover, hardly attain our object. were not old acquaintances, I should have re The Lord has visited me in wrath and heaped sponded to your charge with the horsewbip. bitter woe on my head. I am afraid lest this This time I will overlook the offence and for child of sin should cause me yet a great deal give you.”

of grief and solicitude, but I have done all I “But Lucy was seen in your company." could to recover her. You may likewise go

“In my company, and in that of many back to your home and await there the events others. What does that prove? But I have which will surely come to pass.” no time to spare for arguing with you; I have “And the seducer of your daughter-shall business at court. Go, and beware henceforth he not be punished ?” of charging a nobleman with a crime, without “Who says he should! I know him now, being able to prove it. You might easily in- and that is sufficient; I shall not forget him; cur a heavy penalty for libel. Well, why do his name is in my ledger, and I warrant you you stand still ? You had better leave me as that he shall pay me one day every penny he quickly as possible.” And the overbearing owes me.” youth brandished his flexible riding-whip play The friends then parted, and each returned fully around the ears of the old Puritan, who to his home. gnashed his teeth and returned to his friend. He found him sitting at the door of the tavern and looking for his return.

CHAPTER XX. “Well, what do you bring ?” he said eagerly to Henderson.

“Nothing but the impertinent reply of an Milton had led a very lonely and retired arrogant cavalier. Oh, I would I could have life, and been engrossed in profound studies chastised him as I longed to do!”

since the festival at Ludlow Castle. He had “The time will come when we shall call not seen Alice again, and declined all invitathem to account for every thing, for every tions of the Bridgewater family. He had to thing," murmured Oliver in a prophetic voice. do even without the intercourse of his friend “The present state of affairs cannot last for and his long daily walks with him, as King any length of time. The people will not bear had set out for Ireland. His beloved books, this thraldom much longer; they will arise in with which he was occupied night and day, their might. Woe unto those who have in were his only solace and enjoyment. These curred their wrath! These haughty prelates, incessant studies, by wbich he sought to drown these overbearing nobles will repent when it is his grief and divert his thoughts from his untoo late. Their sins will be brought home to happy love, were injurious to his health. His them. Another deluge will then set in; but I face became very pallid, his bright eyes were

DEATH OF EDWARD KING.

dimmed, and his gait was weary and languid. y his life. A crowd of sorrowing persons folThese.changes did not escape the eyes of his lowed the fishermen and lamented the melantender mother, who had herself been an in- choly fate of the unhappy young man. The valid for some time past. She called the at procession came nearer and nearer to the tention of Milton's father to his sickly appear- tavern, and Milton was able now to recognize ance, and he persuaded his son to make a trip the features of the drowned man. to the sea-shore, and strengthen himself by Uttering a piercing cry, he rushed from the breathing the bracing sea-air and contemplat- house and hastened to the corpse. ing the sublime ocean. The poet accepted “King, my Edward, my Lycidas !” he cried, this suggestion reluctantly and with secret and sank to the ground, overwhelmed with misgivings. He was profoundly moved on grief. bidding farewell to his sick mother.

The crowd had stepped aside on beholding He reached his destination after a short him, and the fishermen had gently put down journey, during which he had met with no ad- their load. All honored this outburst of proventures. He found the whole population in found grief, a state of great excitement, owing to a terrible “Can he not be saved ?” asked Milton, disaster which had just taken place near the after a long pause. shore. The dreadful storm which had raged “He is dead,” replied a kind-hearted sailor. all night long had driven several vessels into “All is in vain ; you see he has been several the breakers, where they had been wrecked hours in the water. Poor young man !” before the eyes of the inhabitants. Many “Where did you find him ? " lives were lost, and the waves threw the “ The waves threw him on the beach near corpses of the drowned sailors upon the beach. those rocks yonder. There are several other Milton learned all this from the talkative corpses yet, all belonging to the same ship. daughter of the landlord at whose tavern he But as the young gentleman seemed to be of had stopped.

noble birth,. we thought we would give him å · “Oh, see,” exclaimed the loquacious girl, Christian burial first of all.” "they are just bringing another drowned man “God bless you for it!" this way. O, my God, what a handsome young “ You seem to be his brother, or some near man! He looks as though he were the Prince relation of his. I suppose, therefore, you will of Wales himself. He must belong to a no take charge of his funeral. Where do you ble family."

want us to carry the corpse ?” Milton stepped mechanically to the window "To the tavern. I shall not leave him unwhich opened upon the sea. He could dis- til he is buried.” tinctly hear the roar of the waves, whose fury At Milton's request, the carriers took up the had not yet subsided. A mournful procession corpse again, and conveyed it to the tavern, moved along the beach. Several fishermen where it was laid on a bed. After paying the were carrying the corpse of a youth who fishermen for their trouble, the poet remained seemed to sleep. Only the matted golden alone with the corpse and with his grief. ringlets, soiled with sand and sea-grass, and “My friend, my brother, my Lycidas !” he the closed eyes, showed that he was dead. cried, despairingly. “Thus you had to perish His travelling-dress, which was that of a wealthy —at the threshold of youth, in the midst of and aristocratic man, was saturated with water, all the promises and joys of life! Oh, I would and indicated the manner in which he had lost cruel death had taken me in your stead !

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to the grave.

With you, I bury my friendship and love. distasteful to him, and there was every prosWoe to me! The sacrifice I made to you was pect of his becoming a confirmed hypochonin vain. A cruel fate has decreed otherwise.” driac. His physician advised a foreign tour.

Such were Milton's lamentations by the At first Milton refused to leave his father, but side of his friend's remains. It was not until he yielded at last to his entreaties, and conthe next day that he recovered sufficient pres- sented to go to Italy. ence of mind to send a messenger with the Before taking leave of England for so long mournful intelligence to King's father in Ire- a time, he visited once more the graves of his land, and make the necessary preparations for mother and his beloved friend. Their rememthe temporary burial of the corpse. The poet brance accompanied him, and he wrote the was the only mourner that followed the coffin sweetest verse in honor of the lamented Ed

ward King. “ Lycidas was the name he "Farewell, farewell !” he cried, as the earth gave to the most touching monody ever dedicovered his friend's remains.

cated by a poet to the memory of his The grave-digger had long since gone away,

friend : but he still sat on the freshly-raised mound.

We were nursed upon the self-same hill: Dusk was already setting in ; a gale was blow Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rili.

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared ing from the sea, the waves roared furiously,

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, and upon the sky scudded dark, ragged clouds, We drove afield; and both together heard

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, from which the moon burst pale and weird.

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night; In his despair, Milton did not notice that many

Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright,

Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering hours passed by. Unutterable woe weighed

wheel. him down; he had lost all : his friend, his be Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Tempered to the oaten flute. loved, his youth, all were buried in this grave. When he rose at last, he had become a man,

But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone, ripe, sober, and grave; his ideals were de Now thou art gone, and never must return!

Thee, shepherd, thee, the woods and desert caves, stroyed; his purest and holiest feelings had

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, left him. He became afterward acquainted And all their echoes, mourn :

The willows, and the hazel-copses green, with other men and women; his poetical heart

Shall now no more be seen throbbed for them too, but no longer so Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose, warmly and enthusiastically as it had once

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, done for King and Alice. Ah, man rises only Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When first the white-thorn blows; once on the wings of youth to heaven ; para

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. lyzed by the thunderbolts of fate, or by the hand of time, he is no longer able to soar to

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more; those divine heights.

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor: Milton returned mournfully to his father's

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, house, where another blow was in store for And yet anon repairs his drooping head him. His mother's disease had become so

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; aggravated that she was at the point of death. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, The faithful son did not leave her bedside un

Through the dear might of Him that walked the

waves; til she breathed her last in his arms. This Where other groves, and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, new loss was too much for him; it undermined

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, his health. His favorite occupations became In the blest kingdous meek of joy and love.

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There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth-swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray.
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.”

BOOK II.

PARIS-HUGO GROTIUS.

that they who sailed by forgot their country, CHAPTER I.

and died in an ecstasy of delight; the language of the country still sounds as sweet as

music, and retains its ancient charm. The voITALY is a Circe, a sweet enchantress, who, luptuousness of Italy is not coarse and repulwith seductive smiles, presents the cup of for- sive, but clad in the garb of beauty and art ; getfulness to the Northern wanderer. Her soft religion itself is in its service. The Madonna breezes caress and fondle him, until they is only a lovely woman, a happy mother with smooth his ruffled brow and drive his grief her charming boy in her arms; she smiles at from his heart. Despair cannot dwell long sinners, and forgives the guilty with feminine under that ever-clear, azure sky, and the golden mildness. These saints and martyrs, notwithsunlight dispels the gloom of the soul; even standing their torments, are splendid men and night is there not the time for melancholy and women, whose beautiful forms delight the eyes contemplation, but for mirth and enjoyment. of the educated beholder. The churches are The light-hearted people prrform the taran- radiant with variegated colors, golden ornatella over ruins and tombs; the guitar and ments, and mosaics; the choir sings in strains tambourine fill the air with their gay notes, of surpassing beauty; and faith is not angry and the merry youths move in the graceful with love entering its sanctuary. With fermazes of the dance. Love-not the cold and vent prayers mingle the ardent sighs of earthsober affection of the North, but the glowing, ly passion, and on beholding the heavenly devouring passion of the South-dwells amid virgin, the worshipper thinks also of the lovely green myrtles and the flaming red blossoms of girl kneeling so close by his side that the hem the pomegranate. The orange-tree bends un of her garment touches him. Their eyes meet, der the load of its golden fruit, and the vine their glances speak an eloquent language, spreads its luxuriant leaves, in whose shade even though their lips must be silent; signs the happy reveller quaffs his fiery must. of a secret understanding are exchanged, and Every thing breathes pleasure and enjoyment, the clasped hands often indicate, in a manner and temptation smiles in every nook. Beau- understood only by the initiated, the hour tiful women, with dark ringlets and burning, when they shall meet again. The penitent sineyes, weave their charming nets around the ner kneels in the confessional, and the indulNorthern barbarian; they are the daughters gent priest grants absolution to the contrite of those sirens who sang with such sweetness | girl. The treasures of art and science, amassed

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