XXI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER." CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench XXII. TO THE SAME. CYRIAC, this three-years-day these eyes, though Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, * Cyriac Skinner was one of the principal members of Harring. ton's political club. Wood says, that he was 'an ingenious young gentleman, and scholar to John Milton.' 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 overIn liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. [plied This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 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 1556, 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. ODES. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.* WRITTEN IN 1629. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn That he our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light unsufferable, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, This Ode, in which the many learned allusions are highly po. etical, was probably composed as a college exercise at Cambridge, our author being now only twenty-one years old. Warton. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, See, how from far, upon the eastern road, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, THE HYMN. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy 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 wooes the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes an universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye,, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean; Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. |