With lengthened arms the snares he plied,
He turned the bee from side to side;
His legs he tied, his wings he bound,
And whirled his victim round and round.

And now with cautious steps and slow,
He came to give the fatal blow;
When, frightened at the trenchant blade,
The bee one desperate effort made.

The fabric breaks-the cords give way;
His wings resume their wonted play;
Far off on gladsome plume he flies,
And drags the spider through the skies.

Shun vice's snares;-but if you're caught,
Boldly resist, and parley not:

Then, though your foe you cannot kill,
You'll lead him captive where you will.

47. THE FIRST WANDERER.-Jewsbury. Creation's heir!-the first, the last, That knew the world his own ;Yet stood he 'mid his kingdom vast, A fugitive-o'erthrown! Faded and frail his glorious form,

And changed his soul within, Whilst fear, and sorrow, strife, and storm, Told the dark secret-sin!

Unaided and alone on earth,

He bade the heavens give ear;-
But every star that sang his birth,
Kept silence in its sphere;

He saw, round Eden's distant steep,
Angelic legions stray;-

Alas! he knew them sent to keep
His guilty foot away.

Then, reckless, turned he to his own,
The world before him spread ;-
But nature's was an altered tone,
And breathed rebuke and dread:

Fierce thunder-peal, and rocking gale,
Answered the storm-swept sea,―
Whilst crashing forests joined the wail;
And all said "Cursed for thee."

This, spoke the lion's prowling roar,
And this, the victim's cry;
This, written in defenseless gore,
For ever met his eye:

And not alone each sterner power,

Proclaimed just heaven's decree,—
The faded leaf, the dying flower,
Alike said "Cursed for thee."

Though mortal, doomed to many a length
Of life's now narrow span,

Sons rose around in pride and strength;-
They too proclaimed the ban.

"Twas heard, amid their hostile spears,
Seen, in the murderer's doom;
Breathed, from the widow's silent tears,
Felt, in the infant's tomb.

Ask not the wanderer's after-fate,
His being, birth, or name,-
Enough that all have shared his state,
That Man is still the same.

Still, brier and thorn his life o'ergrow,
Still, strives his soul within;

Whilst care, and pain, and sorrow show
The same dark secret-sin.

Before proud Rome's imperial throne,
In mind's unconquered mood,

As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless captive stood:

None, to have seen his freeborn air,
Had fancied him a prisoner there.

Though through the crowded streets of Rome,

With slow and stately tread,

Far from his own loved island-home

That day in triumph led,

Unbowed his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed
Of Rome's victorious power;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood, with brow serene,
Where slaves might prostrate fall;
Bearing a Briton's manly mien
In Cæsar's palace-hall;

Claiming, with kindling brow and cheek,
The privilege even there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand
The claim that look preferred;
But motioned, with uplifted hand,
The suppliant should be heard,-
If he, indeed, a suppliant were,
Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,
From Claudius on his throne,
Down to the meanest slave that bowed
At his imperial tone;

Silent his fellow-captives' grief,

As fearless spoke the island chief:

"Think not, thou eagle lord of Rome,
And master of the world,

Though victory's banner o'er thy dome
In triumph now is furled,

I would address thee as thy slave,—
But as the bold should greet the brave.

"I might, perchance, could I have deigned To hold a vassal's throne,

Even now in Britain's isle have reigned
A king, in name alone :—
Yet holding, as thy meek ally,
A monarch's mimic pageantry.

Then through Rome's crowded streets this day,

I might have rode with thee;

Not in a captive's base array,

But fetterless and free;-
If freedom he could hope to find
Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

"But canst thou marvel that,-freeborn,
With heart and hope unquelled,
Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,
By thy permission held?

Or that I should retain my right,
"Till wrested by a conqueror's might?

"Rome, with her palaces, and towers,
By us unwished, unreft,

Her homely huts, and woodland bowers,
To Britain might have left ;-
Worthless to you their wealth must be,
But dear to us-for they were free!

"I might have bowed before, but where
Had been thy triumph now?
To my resolve no yoke to bear

Thou owest thy laureled brow;
Inglorious victory had been thine,
And more inglorious bondage mine.

"Now I have spoken,-do thy will;
Be life or death my lot,-

Since Britain's throne no more I fill,
To me it matters not:

My fame is clear; but on my fate
Thy glory, or thy shame must wait."

He ceased. From all around upsprung
A murmur of applause;

For well had truth and freedom's tongue
Maintained their holy cause:

The conqueror was their captive then;
-He bade the slave be free again.

49.

SPEECH OF BELIAL, DISSUADING WAR.-Milton

I should be much for open war, Oh peers,
As not behind in hate, if what were urged
Main reason to persuade immediate war,
Did not dissuade me more, and seem to cast
Ominous conjecture on the whole success;
When he who most excels in tact of arms,
In what he counsels, and in what excels,
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair,
And utter dissolution as the scope

Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.

First, what revenge ?-The towers of heaven are filled
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep
Encamp their legions or with obscure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realms of night,
Scorning surprise.-Or could we break our way
By force, and at our heels, all hell should rise
With blackest insurrection, to confound
Heaven's purest light; yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne,
Sit unpolluted; and the etherial mold,
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
Is flat despair; we must exasperate
The almighty victor to spend all his rage,
And that must end us; that must be our cure,—
To be no more.-Sad cure!-for who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,-
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide tomb of uncreated night,

Devoid of sense and motion ?-And who knows
(Let this be good) whether our angry foe
Can give it, or will ever? How he can,
Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unawares,
To give his enemies their wish and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves
To punish endless ?" Wherefore cease ye then !
Say they, who counsel war; "we are decreed,