XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.

VANE, young

in years, but in sage counsel old, Than whom a better senator ne'er held

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell'd The fierce Epirot and the African bold;

Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow States hard to be spell'd: 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 learn'd, which few have The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: [done: Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans

In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worship'd 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 roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learn'd thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

XIX. ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light 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."

XX. TO MR. LAURENCE.

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 sow'd 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 touch'd, 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.

XXI. 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, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

XXII. TO THE SAME.

CYRIAC, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. [mask This thought might lead me through the world's vain Content though blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestes, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint,
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of childbed 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 shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night.

This Sonnet was written about the year 1656, on the death of his second wife, Catherine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock, of Hackney, a rigid sectarist. She died in childbed of a daughter, within a year after their marriage. Milton had now been some time totally blind.

DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL RA. ENGRAVED BY CHARLES ROLLS: PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, LONDON.

JULY 11827.