[E] The Council of State ordered, January 1649-50, "That Mr. Milton do prepare something in answer to the book of Salmasius, and when he hath done itt, bring itt to the Council." He was present, says his biographer, at the discussion which led to the order, and though warned that the loss of sight would be the certain consequence of obeying it, did so.--He called to mind, to use his own image, the two destinies the oracle announced to Achilles:--"If he stay before Troy, he will return to his land no more, but have everlasting glory--if he withdraw, long will be his life and short his fame." PART THE FOURTH. "Thus With The Year Seasons Return, But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Even Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom, Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine; But Cloud Instead, And Ever-during Dark Surrounds Me."--_paradise Lost, Book III._ "Though Fall'n On Evil Days, In Darkness, And With Danger Compass'd Round, And Solitude; Yet Not Alone, While Thou Visit'st My Slumbers Nightly, Or When Morn Purples The East."--_paradise Lost, Book VII._ I. Its gay farewell to hospitable eaves The swallow twitter'd in the autumn heaven; Dumb on the crisp earth fell the yellowing leaves, Or, in small eddies, fitfully were driven Down the bleak waste of the remorseless air. Out, from the widening gaps in dreary boughs, Alone the laurel smiled,--as freshly fair As its own chaplet on immortal brows, When Fame, indifferent to the changeful sun, Sees waning races wither, and lives on.-- An old man sate before that deathless tree Which bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside; The last pale rose which lured the lingering bee To the low porch it scantly blossom'd o'er, Nipp'd by the frost-air had that morning died. The clock faint-heard beyond the gaping door, Low as a death-watch, click'd the moments' knell; And through the narrow opening you might see Uncertain foot-prints on the sanded floor (Uncertain foot-prints which of blindness tell); The rude oak board, the morn's untasted fare; The scatter'd volumes and the pillow'd chair, In which, worn out with toil and travel past, Life, the poor wanderer, finds repose at last. II.