24 JANUARY. 



When to the garden walk she took her way, 

 To sport and trip along in cool of day, 

 And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. 

 At every turn she made a little stand, 

 And thrust among the thorns her lily hand 

 To draw the rose ; and every rose she drew 

 She shook its stalk, and brush'd away the dew ; 

 Then party-colour flowers of white and red 

 She wove, to make a garland for her head ; 

 This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear, 

 Then men and angels might rejoice to hear. 



But how much more beautiful is Milton's pic- 

 ture of our first mother, pursuing her pleasant 

 labours in the first garden, issuing from her 

 bower at Adam's call, — 



Awake ! the morning shines, and the fresh field 

 Calls us ; we lose the prime to mark how spring 

 Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, 

 What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, 

 How nature paints her colours, how the bee 

 Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet : 



or, to her sylvan home, as we see her 



Just then returned at shut of evening flowers : 



or, in the midst of that anguish, when hearing 

 pronounced her banishment from Eden, she 

 exclaimed " with audible lament," 



Oh, unexpected stroke worse than of death ! 

 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise 1 thus leave 

 Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades, 

 Fit haunt of Gods 1 where 1 had hoped to spend, 



