So, when the sun in bed, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the' infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fayes [maze. Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd But see, the Virgin bless'd Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have endHeaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, [ing: Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attendAnd all about the courtly stable [ing: Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He, sovereign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast byhis brethren's side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce, Of lute or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief; That Heaven and Earth are colour'd with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the' infection of my sorrows loud This subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright, Burn in your sighs, and borrow Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease. Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just? Were lost in death, till he, that dwelt above And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but O, ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT. DYING OF A COUGH.* ✪ FAIREST FLOWER, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose, fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry: For he, being amorous on that lovely dye Written in 1625, when Milton was seventeen. The infant was a daughter of the poet's sister Phillips. Warton. That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, By boisterous rape the' Athenian damsel got, Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld, Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unwares, with his cold-kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair biding place. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb; |