EXERCISE CXXXVIII. SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. I. MILTON.* O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned, Ah, wherefore? II. He deserved no such return III. O, had his powerful destiny ordained Me some inferior angel, I had stood * See Exercise preceding. Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? Be, then, his love accursed; since love or hate, Nay, cursed be thou; since, against his, thy will IV. Me miserable!—which way shall I fly? V. Ay, me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain; While they adore me on the throne of hell. EXERCISE CXXXIX. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS was born in Liverpool, September 25th, 1794, and died near Dublin, May 12th, 1835. Her early productions,--for she wrote at a very early age,-were not well received. Her maiden name was Browne. In 1812 she was married to Captain Hemans, of the army. The match proving unhappy, and the captain's health infirm, he went, in 1818, to reside in Italy, and she, with her five sons, to live with her mother, in Wales. The separation was understood to be permanent, and proved so. From that time Mrs. Hemans gave herself diligently to authorship: studying, in further. ance of her literary aims, the German and some other foreign languages, and constantly contributing to various periodicals. "If taste and elegance," says a most accomplished critic, "be titles to enduring fame, we might venture securely to promise that rich boon to the author before us [Mrs. Hemans]; for we do not hesitate to say, that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses, that our literature has yet to boast of." SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. FELICIA HEMANS. A Prison in the Palace of the Luxembourg.* D'AUBIGNE, an aged royalist, and BLANCHE, his daughter. Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look, Was there not mercy, father? Will they not D'Aubigne. Yes, my poor child! They send us home! Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire ? Will the old hamlet spire, And the gray turret of our own chateau,† Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? The loving laughter in their children's eyes, *The Luxembourg is one of those magnificent palaces for which Paris is celebrated above every other capital in Europe. It was completed in 1620. During the terrible times of the French Revolution, it was converted into a prison. * Chateau (shat to') a castle. Welcome us back at last? But how is this? Father! thy glance is clouded; on thy brow D'Aubigne. Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace And recognizes, in submissive awe, The summons of his God. Blanche. Thou dost not mean, No, no! it can not be! Didst thou not say, D'Aubigne. Where is the spirit's home? Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power? Blanche. My Father! D'Aubigne. We must die! We must look up to God, and calmly die. Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise In the still courage of a woman's heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche? Blanche. Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms! Father! D'Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go; Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steeped In noble blood, the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live? Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit forever the dishonored soil, The burdened air? Our God upon the cross, Our king upon the scaffold; let us think Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts, Blanche. A dark and fearful way ! An evil doom for thy dear, honored head! Oh! thou, the kind, and gracious! whom all eyes Blessed, as they looked upon! Speak yet again! Say, will they part us? D'Aubigne. No, my Blanche; in death We shall not be divided. Blanche. Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me. His light before me to the last. I shall see And when, Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child! D'Aubigne. Oh! swiftly now, And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour, As yet, I know not. Each low, throbbing pulse Of the quick pendulum may usher in Eternity. Blanche. My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again D'Aubigne. If I may speak through tears, A stainless lily in my widowed house, There springing up, with soft light round thee shed, For immortality! Meek child of God! I bless thee! He will bless thee! In his love |