The murmurs of Euphrates' wave
Sent up a sweet farewell,
As over Nature's infant life

The wand of slumber fell.

That day the princely king of men-
Great master-work of God-
Through Eden's groves, as lord of all,
In matchless beauty trod;
Before the glancing of his eye
The haughty lion quailed,
And sportive life in every form
Its godlike master hailed.

Now, pensive, by the Tree of Life
He watched the dying day,
His locks of gold in wantonness
Waved to the zephyr's play.

In pairs the birds had sought the boughs,

In pairs the beasts had gone To slumber by the babbling stream— Man only was alone.

And countless songsters in the groves Their orisons awoke;

Then, springing from his rosy couch, He gazed, in wondering pride, Upon a phantom of himself,

That slumbered by his side.

He spake, and Eve before him stood,
First wakened by his word,
And meekly claimed the son of God
As guardian, husband, lord;
Then, kneeling to the Maker's throne,
Beneath the Tree of Life,
The earliest earthly Sabbath sun
Saw Adam wed his wife.

J. F. OTTERSON.

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE.

(From "Paradise Lost," Book V.) THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,

Almighty, thine this universal frame. Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above those heavens

To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,

Angels; for ye behold him, and with

songs

And choral symphonies, day without night,

Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in

Heaven,

On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn. Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the

smiling morn

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere.

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,

Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,

And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fli'st,

With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,

And ye five other wandering fires that

move

In mystic dance not without song, resound

His praise, who out of darkness called up light.

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of Natures womb, that in quaternion

run

Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change

Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,

In honor to the world's great Author rise,

Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,

Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four

quarters blow,

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,

With every plant, in sign of worship

The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,

Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.

Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still

To give us only good; and if the night

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

JOHN MILTON (1608-1674).

ADAM TO EVE.

(From "Paradise Lost," Book IX.)

O FAIREST of creation, last, and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled

Whatever can to sight or thought be formed,

Holy, divine, good, amiable or sweet, How art thou lost! how on a sudden lost,

Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote!

Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress

The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred fruit forbidden! Some cursed fraud

Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,

And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee

Certain my resolution is to die. How can I live without thee, how forego

Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,

To live again in these wild woods forlorn?

Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no, no, I feel

The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,

Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state

"In that same hour I lost the glorious stole

Of innocence, that God's own hands had made;

And now, the tempter poisoning all my soul,

I sit in fig-leaves and in skins arrayed;

I sit condemned, distressed, forsaken; Must till the ground, whence I was taken,

By labor's daily sweat.

But thou, that shalt hereafter come,
The offspring of a virgin womb,
Have pity on me yet!

Oh, turn on me those gracious eyes,
And call me back to Paradise!

That I had closed by sin:

And let me taste that holy tree
That giveth immortality

To them that dwell therein!
Or have I fallen so far from grace
That mercy hath for me no place?".
Adam sat right against the eastern gate,
By many a storm of sad remembrance
tost;

"O me! so ruined by the serpent's hate! O me! so glorious once, and now so lost!

So mad that bitter lot to choose!
Beguiled of all I had to lose!
Must I then, gladness of my eyes,
Must I then leave thee, Paradise,
And as an exile go?

And must I never cease to grieve
How once my God, at cool of eve,
Came down to walk below?
O Merciful! on thee I call:
O Pitiful! forgive my fall!"

THEOPHANES (1681-1736). Translated by JOHN MASON NEALE. (1818-1866).

EVE'S LAMENT.

(From "Paradise Lost," Book XI.) 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 hoped to spend,

Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day

That must be mortal to us both.

flowers,

That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last

DEATH, though already in the world, as yet

Had only tried his timorous tooth to whet

On gross and leaves. But he began to grow

Greedier, greater, and resolv'd to know The taste of stronger food than such light fare.

To feed on human flesh he did not dare,

Till many a meaner meal had slowly given

The young destroyer strength to vanquish even

His restless rival in destruction, Man. Meanwhile, on lesser victims he began To test his power; and in a cold spring night

Two weanling lambs first perish'd from his bite.

The bleatings of their dam at break of day

Drew to the spot where her dead lambkins lay

The other beasts. They, understanding not,

In wistful silence round that fatal spot Stood eyeing the dead lambs with looks forlorn.

Eve said to Adam, as they went along, "Adam, last night the cold was bitter

strong.

Warm fleeces to keep out the freezing wind

Have those six lambkins thou hast left behind;

But they will never need them any

more.

Go, fetch them here! and I will make, before

This day be done, stout garments for

us both,

Lest we, too. wake no more." Said

Adam, loth

To do her bidding, "Why dost thou

suppose

Our lambs will nevermore have need of those

Warm fleeces? They are sleeping." But Eve said,

"They are not sleeping, Adam. They are dead."

"Dead? What is that?" "I know not. But I know

That they no more can feel the north wind blow,

Nor the sun burn. They cannot hear

the bleat

Of their own mothers, cannot suffer heat

Or cold, or thirst or hunger, weariness Or want, again." "How dost thou know all this?"

Ask'd Adam. And Eve whisper'd in

his ear,

"The Serpent told me." "Is the Serpent here?

If here he be, why hath he," Adam cried,

"No good gift brought me?" Adam's wife replied,

"The best of gifts, if rightly understood

He brings thee, and that gift is counsel good.

The Serpent is a prudent beast; and right!

For we were miserably cold last night, And may tonight be colder; and hard by

Those dead lambs in their woolly fleeces lie,

Yet need them not as we do. They are dead.