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The stony from their hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerate grow instead; that sighs now breathed
Unutterable; which the Spirit of prayer
Inspired, and winged for heaven with speedier flight
Than loudest oratory: yet their port
Not of mean suitors; nor important less
Seemed their petition, than when the ancient pair
In fables old, less ancient yet than these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore
The race of mankind drowned, before the shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To heaven their prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious winds
Blown vagabond or frustrate : in they passed
Dimensionless through heavenly doors; then clad
With incense, where the golden altar fumed,
By their great Intercessor, came in sight
Before the Father's throne.

Adam and Eve are forgiven. Nevertheless, they are driven from the beautiful garden which had been the scene of their innocence and bliss. The sentence is made known to them by a heavenly messenger sent for the purpose.


Adam at the news
Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow stood,
That all his senses bound; Eve, who unseen
Yet all had heard, with audible lament
Discovered soon the place of her retire.

“O unexpected stroke, worse than of death!
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,

Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,
Quiet though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
At even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names !
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Thee lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world; to this obscure
And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ?''


When I consider how my light is spent
Ero eo!

r days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he, returning, chide ;
“ Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?"

I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need

Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”


SAMUEL BUTLER, (1612-1680), the author of Hope BRAS, lived during the time of the Commonwealth. His poem is a satire upon the rigid notions and manners of the English Puritans of that day. Satire, however keenly enjoyed by contemporaries, seldom outlives its own age. When such is the case, it is conclusive evidence of extraordinary merit. Nearly two centuries have now elapsed since the first publication of this poem, and it still holds its place among the classic productions of the English muse. Few writings of that day have been more read or more quoted. Many of its expressions, indeed, have become identified with the language, and not a few of its ideas completely incorporated into the national mind.

The plan of the poem is taken from Don Quixote, and is very simple. A Puritan justice, with his attendant, an Independent clerk, are represented under the character of the Knight Sir Hudibras, and his Squire Ralph, sallying out to correct abuses in church and state.

When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why :
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,


When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded
With long-eared rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick:
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a-colonelling.


A wight he was, whose very sight would Entitle him, mirror of knighthood; That never bowed his stubborn knee To anything but chivalry; Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right-worshipful on shoulder-blade: Chief of domestic knights and errant, Either for chartel or for warrant: Great on the bench, great on the saddle. That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle: Mighty he was at both of these, And styled of war as well as peace. (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water.) But here our authors make a doubt, Whether he were more wise or stout; Some hold the one, and some the other: But howsoe'er they make a pother, The difference was so small, his brain Outweighed his rage but half a grain ; Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, called a fool.

For 't has been held by many, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras.
(For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.)
But they 're mistaken very much ;
'T is plain enough he was no such :
We grant, although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it;
As being loath to wear it out,
And therefore bore it not about;
Unless on holidays, or so,
As men their best apparel do;
Beside, 't is known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 't is to whistle ;
Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted ;
But much of either would afford
To many, that had not one word.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;
He could distinguish, and divide
A. hair 'twixt south and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute;
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of argument a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,

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