The image of God in Man, created once
So goodly and erect, though faulty since,
To such unsightly sufferings be debased
Under inhuman pains? Why should not Man,
Retaining such divine similitude
In part, from such deformities be free,
And for his Maker's image' sake, exempt?"
"Their Maker's image," answered Michael, "then
Forsook them, when themselves they vilified
To serve ungoverned Appetite, and took
His image whom they served-a brutish vice,
Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve.
Therefore, so abject is their punishment,
Disfiguring not God's likeness, but their own;
Or, if His likeness, by themselves defaced
While they pervert pure Nature's healthful rules
To loathsome sickness-worthily, since they
God's image did not reverence in themselves."
"I yield it just," said Adam, "and submit.
But is there yet no other way, besides
These painful passages, how we may come
To death, and mix with our connatural dust?"
"There is," said Michael, "if thou well observe The rule of 'Not too much,' by temperance taught In what thou eat'st and drink'st, seeking from thence, Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight,
Till many years over thy head return.
So may'st thou live, till, like ripe fruit, thou drop
Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease
Gather'd, not harshly pluck'd; for death mature.
This is old age; but then, thou must outlive
Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will
change,
To wither'd, weak, and gray,-thy senses then,
Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forgo
To what thou hast; and, for the air of youth,
Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign'
A melancholy damp of cold and dry,
To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume
The balm of life." To whom our Ancestor:—
"Henceforth I fly not death, nor would prolong
Life much-bent rather how I may be quit,
Fairest and easiest, of this cumbrous charge,
Which I must keep till my appointed day
Of rendering up, and patiently attend
My dissolution." Michael replied :—
"Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou liv'st Live well; how long, or short, permit to Heaven." MILTON, Paradise Lost, Book XI.
IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright
Be lapped in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this-but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft,-and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.
I STOOD by a tree in December,
I stood and I mocked it sore;
I said, "Thou old leafless cumberer
Of earth, thy day is o'er;
I will send for the axe of the forester,
That thou vex my sight no more."
I looked on a life all leafless,
And dry as a wintry tree,
And I said, "Thou art old and useless,
The world hath no need of thee;
Thou art joyless, and shadeless, and sapless ;-
O God! why should such lives be?"
But the sun beamed out in the summer,
And I looked on my slighted tree,
And 'neath its umbrageous cover,
Green grass and sweet flowers be,
And through its green boughs hover
Insect, and bird, and bee.
And I said to myself in wonder,
Lo! I thought 'twas a lifeless tree,
But the living sap flowed under
The bark so hard to see,
It needed but quickening summer
To set its own life free.
I looked on the life I had slighted,
And lo! it bloomed rich and rare,
And kindly grace unblighted
Shone round it everywhere;
In its warm glow delighted,
All living things had share.
And I said, what quickening summer
Hath come to this life-worn tree,
Hath burst its bands asunder,
And set its froze sap free?
Wouldst know the life-giving mother?
God's Love is that mystery.
MRS. CAMPBELL of Ballochyle.
LIGHT human nature is too lightly lost
And ruffled without cause, complaining on,
Restless with rest, until, being overthrown,
It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost
Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost
Of our ripe peach, or let the wilful sun
Shine westward of our window,-straight we run
A furlong's sigh as if the world were lost.
But what time through the heart and through the brain
God hath transfixed us,—we so moved before,
Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of pain,
We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore,
And hear submissive o'er the stormy main
God's chartered judgments walk for evermore.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
My minde to me a kingdom is;
Such perfecte joy therein I find
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,
That God or nature hath assignde:
Tho' much I want, that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;
Look what I lacke my minde supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I see how plentie surfeits oft,
And hastie clymbers soonest fall: I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all: These get with toil, and keepe with feare: Such cares my mind could never beare.
No princely pompe, nor welthie store,
No force to winne the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lover's eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall;
For why? my mind despiseth all.
Some have too much, yet still they crave,
I little have, yet seek no more;
They are but poore, tho' much they have;
And I am rich with little store :
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give ;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.
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