JOHN MILTON

IT was the Winter wilde, While the Heav’n-born-childe, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to him Had doff’t her gawdy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. Only with speeches fair She woo’s the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, She crown’d with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hookèd Chariot stood Unstain’d with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. The Stars with deep amaze Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferiour flame, The new enlightn’d world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. When such musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortall finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringèd noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close. Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don, And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A Globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d, The helmèd Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir. Such musick (as ’tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set, And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blow And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to th’Angelike symphony. For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckl’d vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Th’enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thron’d in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav’n as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep, The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The agèd Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th’old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o’re, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg’d with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine, And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heav’ns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems dark The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. He feels from Juda’s Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew, So when the Sun in bed, Curtain’d with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to th’infernall jail, Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes, Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze. But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heav’ns youngest teemèd Star, Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours, Which is no more then what is false and vain, And meerly mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d, And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the supreme Throne Of him, t’whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime, Then all this Earthy grosnes quit, Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy, Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers, Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce, And to our high-rais’d phantasie present, That undisturbèd Song of pure content, Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throne To him that sits theron With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily, Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow, And the Cherubick host in thousand quires Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms, Hymns devout and holy Psalms Singing everlastingly; That we on Earth with undiscording voice May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportion’d sin Jarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair musick that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood In first obedience, and their state of good. O may we soon again renew that Song, And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere long To his celestial consort us unite, To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.

HENCE loathèd Melancholy Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorn ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy. Find out som uncouth cell, Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings, And the night-Raven sings; There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But com thou Goddes fair and free, In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth With two sister Graces more To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore; Or whether (as som Sager sing) The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring, Zephir with Aurora playing, As he met her once a Maying, There on Beds of Violets blew, And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew, Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair, So bucksom, blith, and debonair. Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrincled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Com, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastick toe, And in thy right hand lead with thee, The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crue To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-towre in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to com in spight of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, Or the twisted Eglantine. While the Cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darknes thin, And to the stack, or the Barn dore, Stoutly struts his Dames before, Oft listening how the Hounds and horn Chearly rouse the slumbring morn, From the side of som Hoar Hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill. Som time walking not unseen By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green, Right against the Eastern gate, Wher the great Sun begins his state, Rob’d in flames, and Amber light, The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. While the Plowman neer at hand, Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land, And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, And the Mower whets his sithe, And every Shepherd tells his tale Under the Hawthorn in the dale. Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the Lantskip round it measures, Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray, Where the nibling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren brest The labouring clouds do often rest: Meadows trim with Daisies pide, Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. Towers, and Battlements it sees Boosom’d high in tufted Trees, Wher perhaps som beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two agèd Okes, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her Bowre she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead, Som times with secure delight The up-land Hamlets will invite, When the merry Bells ring round, And the jocond rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the Chequer’d shade; And young and old com forth to play On a Sunshine Holyday, Till the live-long day-light fail, Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, With stones told of many a feat, How Faery Mab the junkets eat, She was pincht, and pull’d she sed, And he by Friars Lanthorn led Tells how the drudging Goblin swet, To ern his Cream-bowle duly set, When in one night, ere glimps of morn, His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn That ten day-labourers could not end, Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend, And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And Crop-full out of dores he flings, Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings. Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep, By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep. Towred Cities please us then, And the busie humm of men, Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold, In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold, With store of Ladies, whose bright eies Rain influence, and judge the prise Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend To win her Grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In Saffron robe, with Taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique Pageantry, Such sights as youthfull Poets dream On Summer eeves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe, Warble his native Wood-notes wilde, And ever against eating Cares, Lap me in soft Lydian Aires, Married to immortal verse Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running; Untwisting all the chains that ty The hidden soul of harmony. That Orpheus self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear Such streins as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regain’d Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

HENCE vain deluding joyes, The brood of folly without father bred, How little you bested, Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes; Dwell in som idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train. But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly visage is too bright To hit the Sense of human sight; And therfore to our weaker view, Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue. Black, but such as in esteem, Prince Memnons sister might beseem, Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that strove To set her beauties praise above The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended, Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturns raign, Such mixture was not held a stain) Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. Com pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestick train, And sable stole of Cipres Lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Com, but keep thy wonted state, With eev’n step, and musing gate, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There held in holy passion still, Forget thy self to Marble, till With a sad Leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring, Ay round about Joves Altar sing. And adde to these retirèd Leasure, That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, The Cherub Contemplation, And the mute Silence hist along, ’Less Philomel will daign a Song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke, Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke; Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musicall, most melancholy! Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among, I woo to hear thy eeven-Song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven Green, To behold the wandring Moon, Riding neer her highest noon, Like one that had bin led astray Through the Heav’ns wide pathles 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 som wide-water’d shoar, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the Ayr will not permit, Som still removèd 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 Belmans drousie charm, To bless the dores from nightly harm: Or let my Lamp at midnight hour, Be seen in som high lonely Towr, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear 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 Dæmons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With Planet, or with Element. Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy In Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by, Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line, Or the tale of Troy divine. Or what (though rare) of later age, Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæeus from his bower Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, 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 Canace to wife, That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass, And of the wondrous Hors of Brass, On which the Tartar King did ride; And if ought els, great Bards beside, In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of Turneys and of Trophies hung; Of Forests, and inchantments drear, Where more is meant then meets the ear. Thus night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appeer, Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont, With the Attick Boy to hunt, But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud, While rocking Winds are Piping loud, Or usher’d with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the russling Leaves, With minute drops from off the Eaves. And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me Goddes bring To archèd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, Of Pine, or monumental Oake, Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt. There in close covert by som Brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from Day’s garish eie, While the Bee with Honied thie, That at her flowry work doth sing, And the Waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep; And let som strange mysterious dream, Wave at his Wings in Airy stream, Of lively portrature display’d, Softly on my eye-lids laid. And as I wake, sweet musick breath Above, about, or underneath, Sent by som spirit to mortals good, Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood. But let my due feet never fail, To walk the studious Cloysters pale, And love the high embowèd Roof, With antick Pillars massy proof, And storied Windows richly dight, Casting a dimm religious light. There let the pealing Organ blow, To the full voic’d Quire below, In Service high, and Anthems cleer, As may with sweetnes, through mine ear, Dissolve me into extasies, And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peacefull hermitage, The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew, And every Herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To somthing like Prophetic strain. These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to live.

O’re the smooth enameld green Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing, And touch the warbled string. Under the shady roof Of branching Elm Star-proof, Follow me, I will bring you where she sits Clad in splendor as befits Her deity. Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen.