There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Ay round about Jove's altars sing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.
But first and chiefest with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;

Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even-song,
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfeu sound
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds, or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
Or else the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy pow'r
Might raise Museus from his bow'r,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's check,
And made Hell grant what love did seek.

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till silver-suited morn appear,
Nor trickt and frounc'd as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the caves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;

And let some strange, mysterious dream
Wave at his wings an airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim, religious light."
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

§ 3. LYCIDAS. MILTON.

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once

more,

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year;
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth
spring,

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favor my destin'd urn;
And, as she passes, turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of
night,

Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Tow'rd heaven's descent had slop'd his west'ring wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.

But, O the heavy change! now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert

Had ye been there-for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The Muse herself for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the
praise,

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling

ears;

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glist'ring foil,

Set off to th' world: nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove:
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea ;
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reck'ning make, Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold [least A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;

And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw:
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they
draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said,
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian
Muse,

And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing
brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied show'rs,
And purple all the ground with vernal flow'rs.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white-pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flow'r that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lics.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ah me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding

seas

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with
ruth:

And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead; [more,
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, [ore
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd
the waves,

Where other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and

moon

Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self
Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude,
Where with her best nurse, Contemplation,
She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings,
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd.
He that hath light within his own clear breast
May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day:
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts,
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.

§ 5. Meditation and Beauty. MILTON.
MUSING Meditation most affects
The pensive secrecy of desert cell,
Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds,
For who would rob a hermit of his weeds,
And sits as safe as in a senate-house;
His few books, or his beads, or maple dish,
grey hairs any violence?
But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard
Of dragon watch, with uninchanted eye,
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit
From the rash hand of bold incontinence.

Or do his

Some say no evil thing that walks by night,
In fog or fire, by lake, or moorish fen,
Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost,
That breaks his magic chains at curfeu time,
No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine,
Hath hurtful pow'r o'er true virginity.
Do you
believe me yet, or shall I call
Antiquity from the old schools of Greece
To testify the arms of chastity?

Hence hath the huntress Dian' her dread bow,
Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste,
Wherewith she tam'd the brinded lioness

And spotted mountain pard, but set at nought The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen o' th'

woods.

What was the snaky-headed Gorgon shield, That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, Wherewith she freez'd her foes to congeal'd

stone,

But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
And noble grace that dash'd brute violence
With sudden adoration and blank awe?
So dear to Heaven is saintly Chastity,
That, when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,
And in clear dream and solemn vision,
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turn it by degrees to the soul's essence,
Till all be made immortal: but when lust,
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,
Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The soul grows clotted by contagion,
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose
The divine property of her first being.
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sepulchres,
Ling'ring and sitting by a new-made grave,
As loth to leave the body that it lov'd,
And link'd itself by carnal sensuality
To a degenerate and degraded state.

§7. Philosophy. MILTON.

How charming is divine Philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns!

§ 8. True Liberty. MILTON.

-TRUE Liberty.
Is lost, which always with right reason dwells
Twinn'd, and from her hath no dividual being:
Reason in man obscur'd or not obey'd,
Immediately inordinate desires

And upstart passions catch the government
From reason, and to servitude reduce
Man, till then free.

$9. Powers of Body and Mind. MILTON.

OH how comely it is, and how reviving
To the spirits of just men, long oppress'd,
When God into the hands of their deliverer
Puts invincible might,

To quell the mighty of the earth, th' oppressor,
The brute and boisterous force of violent men,
Hardy and industrious to support
The righteous, and all such as honor truth!
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue
He all their ammunition
And feats of war defeats;
With plain heroic magnitude of mind,
Their armories and magazines contemns,
And celestial vigor arm'd,
Renders them useless, while
With winged expedition,

Swift as the lightning glance, he executes
His errand on the wicked, who, surpris'd,
Lose their defence, distracted and amaz'd.

§ 10. On Shakspeare. MILTON. WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honor'd bones

The labor of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a starry-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory! great heir of fame!
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy
Thou in our wonder and astonishment [name?
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring

art

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiv
ing;

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,

§ 11. Song: on May Morning. MILTON.

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger,

Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

§ 12. Virtue and Evil. MILTON. VIRTUE may be assail'd, but never hurt, Surpris'd by unjust force, but not enthrall'd: Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm,

Shall in the happy trial prove most glory;
But even on itself shall back recoil,

And mix no more with goodness, when at last,
Gather'd like scum, and settled to itself,
It shall be in eternal restless change

Self fed, and self-consumed: if this fail,
The pillar'd firmament is rottenness,
And earth's base built on stubble.

§ 13. Patience. MILTON.
MANY are the sayings of the wise,
In ancient and in modern books inroll'd,
Extolling Patience as the truest fortitude;
And to the bearing well of all calamities,
All chances incident to man's frail life,
Consolatories writ

[sought,
With studied argument, and much persuasion
Lenient of grief and anxious thought;
But with th afflicted, in his pangs, their sound
Little prevails, or rather seenis a tune
Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his com-
Unless he feel within
[plaint;

Some source of consolation from above,
Secret refreshings, that repair his strength,
And fainting spirits uphold.

§ 14. Sonnet: on his deceased Wife. MILTON.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband

gave,

[faint. Rescued from death by force, though pale and Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed Purification in the old law did save, [taint And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd

So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But, oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, [night.
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my
§ 15. Spirits. MILTON.
-SPIRITS, when they please,
Can either sex assume, or both; so soft
And uncompounded is their essence pure;
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb,
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
Like cumbrous flesh; but in what shape they

choose,

Dilated or condens'd, bright or obscure,
Can execute their airy purposes,
And works of love or enmity fulfil.

§ 16. Pain. MILTON.

-WHAT avails

[with pain, Valour or strength, though matchless, quell'd Which all subdues, and makes remiss the hands Of mightiest? Sense of pleasure we may well Spare out of life, perhaps, and not repine; But live content, which is the calmest life: But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils! and, excessive, overturns All patience.

And oft though Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps At Wisdom's gate, and to Simplicity [ill Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no Where no ill seems.

§ 18. The Lady reproving Comus. MILTON.

I HATE when vice can bolt her arguments, And virtue has no tongue to check her pride. Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous Means her provision only to the good, With her abundance! she, good cateress, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare Temperance: If every just man, that now pines with want, Had but a moderate and beseeming share Of that which lewdly-pamper'd luxury Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, Nature's full blessings would be well dispens'd In unsuperfluous even proportion, And she no whit encumber'd with her store, And then the giver would be better thank'd, His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony Ne'er looks to Heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast, But with besotted, base ingratitude Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go Or have I said enough? To him that dares Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words

on?

Against the sun-clad pow'r of Chastity,
Thou hast not ear, nor soul to apprehend
Fain would I something say, yet to what end?
The sublime notion, and high mystery
That must be utter'd to unfold the sage
And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not
And serious doctrine of Virginity, [know
More happiness than this thy present lot.
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, [fence,
That hath so well been taught her dazzling
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinc'd;
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits
To such a flame of sacred vehemence,' [thize,
And the brute earth would lend her nerves,
That dumb things would be mov'd to sympa

and shake,

Till all the magic structures, rear'd so high, Were shatter'd into heaps o'er thy false head.

§ 19. Sonnet to the Nightingale. MILTON.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; oh if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous pow'r to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the muse or love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.