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no means follow, though we mournfully allow the poet's beretical notions as to the nature of the Son of God, and therefore his defective faith in the Atonement, that he denied the Atonement; a doctrine, which every line of his two great poems demonstrates, he held in so high a degree above the modern Socinian, or Unitarian, that the modern heretic would deem him an idolater.

His poetical system, required that the obedience of the second Adam should be the ostensible, sign of the recovery of map from the state of condemnation, into which he was brought by the disobedience of the first Adam. His poetical judgment has indeed been called into question; and this is a more fair subject of question than to condemn his theology on account of the plan of his two poems. On this head it is held that the Temptation forms so inconsiderable a part of the history of the Divine Founder of the Christia Religion that it is no kind of parallel to the splendid story and noble invention of Paradise Lost,

Dr. Bentley, and others, are of opinion that the Resurrection would have turnished a fitter subject, as being being more copious and more sublime. This critic seems to think that the Poet himself once had this idea floating in his mind, when, in Paradise Lost, he describes Jesus rising from his grave, spoiling principalities and powers, and triumphing in open show by his ascension I had rather adduce this passage in favor of the soundness of Milton's own theology, as regarded the resurrection, which Christians confess to be the consummation of the Saviour's Victory over Sin and Death, He died for our sins, and rose again for our justification.

Without questioning any of the known points of faith on the subject of Christ's Atonement, but incliuing to the doctrine now described under the denomination of Arminian, Milton took the scene of the Temptation, as the basis of his second Poem. If we may suppose him to reason) it be allowed that implicit obedience to the will of the Most High in all things be the sure fruit, rather than the sign, of our Christian Faith,—it is enough, for the illustration of the principle, that one great instance be exemplified, The Fall of man sprang from Disobedience. The consequence of that Fall was a partial abduction of Divine Grace, as it is termed by the early Fathers of the Church. Man apostalized, and disobeyed the Law of God The fearful state of corruption, at which the hu man mind had arrived at the appearance of the Messiah, was owing to their general apostasy, and their continuance in this dis obedience. Such were the fruits of idolatry and unbelief.

*

Faith, on the contrary, is not merely shown by, but it is a con, tinuance or perseverance in obedience through life, ever allowing for human frailty and infirmity. Faith is not merely belief. Be lief is a barren plant, which without practical obedience grows in hell itself; for the "devils also believe, and tremble." Faith there

B. L. B. X. 185-190,

fore has not this bare and single being. It is the whole tree,not merely the stem and branches and leaves, but likewise the flowers and fruits, and is therefore not cursed, but blessed. It is the principle, which impels the sincere Christian to a series of consistent good works, or actions, that is, to a life of holiness and obedience to the Divine Law. This principle was illustrated by our Poet in one great instance of the Temptation of our Lord, recorded by St. Luke, by the same evil Spirit who, by the temptation and fall of our first parents,-as Milton had himself sung in the solemn invocation to his first immortal Poem,

tt Brought death into the world, and all our wöe;
With loss of Eden; TILL ONE GREATER MÅN

Restore us, and regain the blissful seat.”

Milton is thus consistent with himself.

P. L. B. I. 3.

The last thing which remains for our consideration, is the report ed preference by the Poet himself of Paradise Regamed before Paradise Lost. For my own part, I am disposed to doubt the right apprehension of this imputed preference. He knew the sources in his own mind, and the strength of his own powers; and, conscious that he had as perfectly accomplished what he designed in his second poem, as in his first, he was naturally impatient of the depreciation of Paradise Regained by incompetent judges.

Independent, however, of the intrinsic and comparative excellence of his two great works, there are reasons which possibly might induce this preference in the mind of our truly sublime Poet. Paradise Lost was (it may be said) the work of his whole life. He gave the promise of it in one of the earliest of his prose works; and it is one of the most vigorous and eloquent passages in the English language, He tells us that the work he contemplates, is, not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgaf amorist or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite; nor to be obtained by the invocation of dame memory and her siren daughters, but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim, with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases: to this must be added idustrious aud select reading, steady observation, and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs. This great object bounded the spiritual horizon of his mind. It never was entirely absent from his thoughts. It had It had some share in all his studies. All the secret contemplations of his soul were employed upon it. He never lost sight of it. And although it had no actual existence until he was an old man, and blind like another Homer, it may be said to have been conceived, and almost born, and, in the processes of his wonderful mind, to have attained to a considerable degree of maturity, ere the time came that it was poured forth like streams of living water; so full, even to overflowing, were the secret reservoirs of his inner soul.

Paradise Regained was the work of his elder years. Longinus says the same of Homer's two great poems; that he composed the Iliad in his youth, the Odyssey in his old age. There is a sin gular analogy in the subjects of the poems of these great minde, as well as in the circumstances of their composition. The mind of Milton, in his old age, was more disposed to entertain subjects of pure con templation than those of action, which, we have seen, is the moreprevailing principle of Paradise Lost. The light of faith shines brightly and serenely on this stage of life from the pages of the New Testament, whence the subject of Paradise Regained is drawn. The joys of religion in the old age of a well-spent life, when the passions are under the control of a sanctified reason, must be infinitely more pure than at the season, when, as it were, the moon is at the full, and the tides are in feverish and restless agitation. The storm of life is past. Man finds "his port, his harbour, and his ultimate repose. He feels himself approaching step by step, to his "final good." Old Age sees more than "through a glass darkly," It antedates its final consummation. It anticipates the end of its journey. It almost enters that PRESENCE,

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"Before whose sight the troubles of this world
Are vain as billows in a dashing sea.

B.

English Anthology.

XVI.

The "King of Terrors" stalked abroad,
And many a victim marked his track;
He stretched his grisly arm and seized
The only child of Peon Jack.

The Peon came with mournful brow
And said 'twould tend to heal the wound,
If "his kind Honor" would allow
The corpse to lie in christian ground.
"It is decreed" thus spake the Judge,
"It can't-I'll yield not one iota,"
"Your Christianity's all fudge"
"I've heard, you swear on Banapota"
Poor Jack! the picture of despair
At length replied, with downcast look,
"If Sir give order-I could swear"
"On that or any other book."
Fore'd to submit to this decree,
And I'll allow that none were juster,
Twas consolation still to see
The urchin buried Europe muster.

H.

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XVII.

How fares the lonely pilgrim, or the wild
Untutor'd Indian, Nature's free-born child ?
For oft' those brave and all-enduring men,
Die in the desert far from human ken;

And when the wolves' and vultures' feast is done
Their bones are left to whiten in the sun!
The sailor boy lies slumbering 'neath the wave
Unwept, unprayed for, in his ocean grave.
A shotted sail his coffin, the low breeze
His funeral dirge, his shroud the trackless seas.
No marble tells the virtues of the dead;
No flowers are scattered, and no tears are shed.
No voice is heard save of th' eternal one
Who speaketh in the tempest; there are none
A-near him save the monsters of the deep,
That round him sport and by his side oft' sleep.
Those brave hearts too that in the battle fell,
Fighting for king and country, whose death knell
Was Freedom's shout of vict'ry; whose last prayer
Was for the banners which were floating there,
Witnesses of their struggle. Side by side
Foeman and friend lay sleeping as they died.
Shallow the trench, and bleak and wild the spot
Where sleep the warriors, soon to be forgot,
Save by a few endear'd by tender ties,
Whose friendship lingers o'er the dust that dies,
Lonely and lowly as their graves may be,
Think ye, my friends, their spirits are less free,
And fit for heaven, or their sleep less sound
Than theirs' who rest in "consecrated ground ?”
Oh! no, Oh! no,-it may not, cannot be;`
For the Creator is our God, and he

Who made the green earth made the deep blue sea.
The fishes and the beasts, the fruits and flowers
Which nature yields, were given for us and our's.
The field, the rock, the desert and the hill,
Were made for man to plant, to hew, to till.

Yes, the whole world, this bright and blooming earth,
Was bless'd and consecrated at its birth.
Unto the human race: then who shall care
What is his resting-place, or how, or where!
Nay! rather bow in humbleness and know
That if there be a thing or spot below,
Which may be bless'd and sanctified by man,
"Tis not his empty words, but deeds which can.
The grass that grows o'er virtue's honest grave,
The flags that o'er our patriots' ashes waive,

The stake and block where christian martyrs bled,
The stone whereon is laid a good king's head.
These may be gazed on with all love and pride,
For these and such as these are truly sanctified.

EB. C. M.

THE ORGANS OF THE BRAIN,

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS, TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF AUGUST VON KOTZERue.

ACT 2ND-CENE 18t.

MR. VON RICKENMARK (ALONE, WITH A LETTER IN HIS HAND. A CASKET LIES ON THE TABLE.)

Anonymous letters should be treated at the Post office just as letters from Italy are:-pricked, smoked, and plunged into vinegar-for they come from hearts infected with the very worst kind of plague.— Such letters are always indited under the pretence of benefiting the party to whom they are addressed, but their real purport is the injury of the person about whom they are written. Their authors are highway robbers who hide behind a hedge and shoot at the passersby from their lurking places.-Or rather they are blackguards who go about in the dark ringing the house door-bells.—A creature of this description writes to me-"Be on your guard.-Your son is bringing a lady disguised in man's clothes with him whom he has mar ried here; a coquette who baving made fools of a number of respectable gentlemen, myself among the number."Ah! a disappointed rival I see-" has at last ran away from here with your son whom she has managed to take in. Save this excellent yourg man, and do not despise the warning given you

"By your unknown friend”
"N. N."

Mr. N. N. is an unknown scoundrel and nothing better even if his intelligence be correct. It is true I remarked when we were singing that the young gentleman had a voice like a boy twelve years old-but then he told me that he sung falsetto.-And my son with his flat poll!-No, no, I can't believe it.-But I'll soon be at the bottom of this business.-If it's correct, Peter Goodsheep must necessarily know of it. He has been sitting for the last two hours before a leg of mutton in my antichamber-These geniusses have astonishing appetites. He must, however, have eaten his fill by this time (he goes to the door and calls) Peter Goodsheep! be so good as to come here a moment.

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