William rejoiced, as he laid down the petition, that she had asked a favor he could bestow, and hoped by his protection of the son to redress in some degree the wrongs he had done the mother. He instantly sent for the messenger into his apartment, and impatiently asked if he had seen the boy and given proper directions for his care. "I have given directions, sir, for his funeral." "How!" cried William. 'He pined away ever since his mother was confined, and died two days after her execution." Robbed by this news of his only gleam of consolation, in the consciousness of having done a mortal injury for which he never now by any means could atone, he saw all his honors, all his riches, all his proud selfish triumphs, DIES IRE. FROM THE LATIN OF THOMAS OF CELANO. AY of vengeance, without | King of majesty tremendous, morrow, Earth shall end in flame Fount of pity, safety send us! and sorrow, As from saint and seer we borrow. Ah! what terror is im pending When the Judge is seen weary, Worn and thou hast sought me, And each secret veil is Righteous Judge of retribution, rending! To the throne the trumpet sounding, Death and Nature, 'mazed, are quaking, On the written volume's pages Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, What shall I, then, say, unfriended, When the just are scarce defended? Give, oh, give me absolution CEDMON. EDMON is considered the earliest of the English poets. He was a man sprung from the people, and at one time in his life was a mere cowherd. He was, however, addressed one night by a stranger, as he thought, in his sleep, and asked to sing a song. He replied that he could not, when the stranger urged that he could, and that he could sing the "Creation." Cadmon then, wondering at himself, began to sing most beautiful verses. He soon afterward awoke, and went immediately to the reeve of Whitby, who, wise and good man that he was, took him to the abbey and told the wondrous story to the abbess Hilda. He recounted the last night's adventure and repeated the verses, which at once obtained the admiration of the persons present. They then explained to him other parts of Holy Scripture, whereupon he went home and produced a beautiful poem. At the request of the abbess he became a monk, and continued to write poems founded on sacred history. There is a striking resemblance between Cadmon's account of "The Fall of Man," etc., and portions of Milton's "Paradise Lost." Conybeare, in his Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry, says: "The pride, rebellion and punishment of Satan and his princes have a resemblance to Milton so remarkable that most of this portion might be almost literally translated by a cento of lines from the great poet." The time of Cadmon's death is uncertain-probably about 680. SA S. O. BEETON. SATAN'S SPEECH. ATAN harangued, He who hell henceforth Govern the abyss. He was erst God's angel, Until him his mind urged That he would not Boiled within him His thought about his heart, Hot was without him His dire punishment, Then spake he the words: "This narrow place is most unlike That other that we ere knew, High in heaven's kingdom, Which my Master bestowed on me, Though we it, for the All-powerful, May not possess, Must cede our realm. Yet hath he not done rightly, My strong Seat possess; Be to him in delight And we endure this torment Misery in this hell. Oh, had I power of my hands, And might one season Be one winter's space, Then with this host I— Presseth this cord of chain: A loathier landskip; The flame abateth not; Hot over hell. Me hath the clasping of these rings, My feet are bound, My hands manacled; Of these hell-doors are So that with aught I cannot From these limb-bonds escape; About me lie Of hard iron With which me God Hath fastened by the neck. Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind, And that knew also The Lord of hosts That should us, through Adam, About the realm of heaven, Where I had power of my hands. But we now suffer chastisement in hell, God hath us himself Swept into these swart mists, Thus he cannot us accuse of any sin repair, Corrupt him there in his will, If we may it in any way devise. souls; Now I have no confidence farther in this bright state, That which he seems long destined to enjoy, That bliss with his angel's power. |