The Poetical Works of Milton, Young, Gray, Beattie, and Collins

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damætas loved 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 caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn:

The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays,
As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the whitethorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

And listens to the herald of the sea*
That came in Neptune's plea:

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain:
And questioned every gust of rugged wings,
That blows from off each beaked promontory:
They know not of his story;

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with wo.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless' Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?'

deep

Closed over the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
Ah me! I fondly dream!

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 mind)
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 the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour 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 honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal
reeds!

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

Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,'
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
How well could I have spared for thee, young
swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reckoning 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

A sheephook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful herdsman'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, swollen 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 enginet 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 enameled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied shower,

• "The herald of the sea."-Triton.

↑ "Two-handed engine."-the axe of reformation.

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crowtoe, and pale jessamine,

|In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and, singing, in their glory move, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;

The glowing violet,

The muskrose, and the well attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
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 hurled,
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 towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead;
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
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

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 the oaks and
rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CON-
SCIENCE UNDER THE LONG PAR-
LIAMENT.

BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord,
And with stiff vows renounced his liturgy,
To seize the widowed whore Plurality
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred;
Dare ye for this abjure the civil sword

To force our consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic hierarchy
Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford?
Men, whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul,
Must now be named and printed heretics
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call:
But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots and packing worse than those of
Trent.

That so the parliament May with their wholesome and preventive shears, Clip your phylacteries, though bauk your ears,

And succour our just fears,

When they shall read this clearly in your charge, New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.

Sonnets.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

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; O if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late. For my relief, yet had'st no reason why:

Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE
AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud nor blossom showeth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely happy spirits indueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broadway and the green,

And with those few art eminently seen,

That labour up the hill of heavenly truth, The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but piety and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be

sure

Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends

Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure.

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till sad the breaking of that Parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Charonea, fatal to liberty, Killed with report that old man eloquent.

Toward which time leads me, and the will of Though later born than to have known the days

That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.

Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.

ON THE SAME.

I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When straight a barbarous noise environs me
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs:
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee.
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs;
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
License they mean when they cry liberty;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good;
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood.

TO MR. H. LAWES,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.

HARRY, whose tuneful and well measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent not to scan
With Midas' ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth air could'st humour best our
tongue.

Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honour thee the priest of Phoebus' choir, That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or

story.

Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing Met in the milder shades of purgatory.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED 16th DECEMBER, 1646. WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never,

Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou did'st resign the earthy load

Of death, called life; which us from life doth

sever.

But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best. Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beam

And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,

Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings; Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their hydra heads, and the false north displays Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,

(For what can war, but endless war still breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith cleared from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed, While avarice and rapine share the land.

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROM

WELL.

CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast
plonghed,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur-
sued,

While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,

And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re

mains

To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

TO SIR HENRY VANE,

THE YOUNGER.

Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;

Than whom a better senator ne'er held

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms repelled

The fierce Epirot and the African bold; Whether to settle peace or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled; Then to advise how war may, best upheld, Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: besides to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou hast learned, which few
have done;

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe:
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIE

MONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose

⚫bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and
stones,

Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled"
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their

moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

TO MR. LAWRENCE.
LAWRENCE, of virtuous father, virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius reinspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us; light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER,
CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that, after, no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the
French

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes And disapproves that care, though wise in show,

SOW

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my life is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more
bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning, chide;
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask: But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his

state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

That with superfluous burden loads the day
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 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, Rescued from death by force, tho' pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the' old Law did save,

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 O! as to embrace me she inclin'd,

I wak'd; she fled; and day brought back my night.

This sonnet was written about the year 1656, on the death of his second wife, Catharine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock, of Hackney, a rigid sectarist. She died in child-bed of a daughter, within a year after their marriage. Milton had now been long totally blind.

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