P R * .c$ MILTON'S RTER POEMS CHILD Class VV\ "oc Book ^ Copyright N^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. XLbc Scrlbncr JEngllsb Classics EDITED BY FREDERICK H. SYKES, Ph.D. TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY JOHN MILTON SHORTER POEMS The Scribner English Classics;] Prof. Frederick H. Sykes, Ph.D., Teachers College, Columbia Uni. versity, General Editor. NOW READY BURKE. Speech for Conciliation with the Colonies. Edited by Dean Thomas Arkle Clark, University of Illinois. WEBSTER. First Bunker Hill Oration.) ' WASHINGTON. Farewell Address. \ ^""^ volume. Edited by Dean Thomas Arkle Clark, University of Illinois. CARLYLE. Essay on Burns. Edited by Prof. Archibald MacMechan, Dalhousie University, Halifax. COLERIDGE. The Ancient Mariner, and Select Poems. j Edited by Prof. Henry M. Belden, University of Missouri. MACAULAY. Life and Writings of Addison. > t:, t , >One volume. Essay on Johnson. ) Edited by Prof. Cecil Lavell, Queen's University, Kingston. BROWNING. Shorter Poems. Edited by Prof. John W. Cunliffe, University of Wisconsin. SHAKESPEARE. Julius Caesar. Edited by Prof. Frederick H. Sykes, Teachers College, Columbia University. SHAKESPEARE. Macbeth. Edited by Prof. Frederick H. Sykes, Teachers College, Colurnbia University. SCOTT. Lady of the Lake. Edited by Ralph H. Bowles, formerly of The Phillips Exeter Academy. MILTON. Minor Poems. Edited by Dean Clarence G. Child, University of Pennsylvania. GASKELL. Cranford. Edited by Katherine E. Forster, Eastern Normal School, Kentucky^ OTHERS IN PREPARATION. CHARLES SCRIBNER' S SONS Educational Department Publishers, 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York City. John Milton From an engraving Cbe Scribner JSwQUeb Clasgtcs JOHN MILTON COMUS, L'ALLEGRO IL PENSEROSO AND LYCIDAS WITH OTHER OF MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS EDITED WITH 'INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY CLARENCE GRIFFIN CHILD PH.D., L.H.D., PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1910 rR^t^ Copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons (gCI,A261i50 PREFACE T^HE shorter poems of Milton that make up this volume ■*■ comprise a group of poems among the most precious in English verse. They are classics in our literature, and as such must take their place wherever English poetry is read or studied. Milton is our most difficult poet, and calls for study; yet these poems are his least difficult work, and offer the student, there- fore, not only their own worth as poetry, but also the easiest approach to the study and love of Milton. It is the aim of this volume to help the teacher (who counts more than any book) not alone in preparing students for ex- amination, but also in leading them to a true appreciation of Milton's poetry, in and for itself. To this end several poems, not usually required in the examinations for college entrance, have been included in the volume. The notes, it is hoped, will prove full, but not over-full. Needed help is given in regard to obsolete words, in illustration of Milton's borrowings, in explanation of his allusions, metaphors, the more difficult points in his prosody and (a neglected subject) his rimes; but non-essentials have been resolutely omitted. It is always a pleasing duty to acknowledge one's indebted- ness to one's predecessors — who, in the present case, form a long line from the early editors such as Warton, Todd, and Newton, to the veritable host of modern witnesses, more par- ticularly Masson, Verity, and especially Osgood, whose ad- mirable Classical Mythology of Milton's English Poems, has imposed a lasting obligation upon every student of Milton. Due credit, it is believed, has been given in all cases, except such matters as have become commonplaces of Miltonic criticism. vii viii PREFACE Wherever views differing from current views are advanced, care has been taken to state current views as well. The writer wishes for every student who uses this book such a love for Milton's poetry as may make a school-text seem an impertinence. 2>^ r f CONTENTS ^ i PAGE PREFACE vii BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE x DATES OF MILTON'S LIFE xi INTRODUCTION: I. The Life of Milton xiii II. The Poetry of Milton . xxii TEXT OF SHORTER POEMS: On the Morning of Christ's Nativity ... 3 On Shakespeare 14 On Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three 15 L'Allegro 16 II Penseroso 21 CoMus 27 Lycidas 63 To Mr. H. Lawes, on His Airs 70 "■ — On the Late Massacre IN Piedmont ....'. 71 . On His Blindness 72 NOTES 73 INDEX TO NOTES . . „ 157 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Texts: The most convenient and instructive complete edi- tion of Milton's poetical works for general reference is that of H. C. Beeching (Henry Frowde, New York, 1906), which repro- duces the poems, English and Latin, in their original form from the editions of 1645 and 1673. Of annotated editions, the most useful are those of David Masson and A, W. Verity. Texts of special importance for the poems in this volume are the Facsimile of the Manuscript of Milton's Minor Poems, preserved in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge, published by that University (available in few large libraries), and Comus. Facsimile from the first edition of 1637 (Dodd, Mead), 1903. Special Topics: Works of value on special topics are Robert Bridge's Milton's Prosody (Oxford, 1901), and C. G. Osgood's Classical Mythology of Milton's English Poems (Yale Studies in English), which is indispensable to the student of Milton. Biography: The standard life of Milton is that of David Masson, 1859-94. Criticism: Critical works upon the poet are innumerable, and the student may profitably confine himself to the essays of Addison, Dr. Johnson, and Macaulay (now chiefly of historic interest); of Lowell (in Among My Books, second series); of Walter Bagehot (in Literary Studies), and Edward Dowden (in Puritan and Anglican, New Studies in Literature), both invalu- able; and the suggestive and illuminating memoirs by W. P Trent (John Milton : Macmillan Company, New York, 1899), and Walter Raleigh {Milton : Putnam, New York, 1900). DATES OF MILTON'S LIFE FIRST PERIOD— 1608-1639 1608. Born in London, December 9. 1625. Entered Christ's College, Cambridge (B. A., 1629; M. A. 1632; M. A., Oxford, 1635). 1632-1638. At his father's home in Horton. 1638-39. Travelled on the Continent. 1639. Returned to London. SECOND PERIOD— 1640-1660 1640. Leased a house in London. 1641-1644. Pamphlets in behalf of liberty. 1642. First sketch of a projected drama on Paradise Lost. Civil War begins. 1643. Married Mary Powell. 1645. First edition of Poems. 1649. Charles I executed. Milton appointed Latin Secretary to the Commonwealth. 1649-1651. Tracts in defence of the Commonwealth. 1652. Became totally blind. Mary Powell dies. 1656. Married Catherine Woodcock. 1658. Paradise Lost begun. Second wife dies. 1660. The Restoration. Milton in hiding until the Act of Indemnity. THIRD PERIOD 1660-1674. In retirement in London. 1663. Married Elizabeth Minshull. 1665. Paradise Lost finished. 1667. Paradise Lost published. 1671. Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes published. 1673. Second edition of Poems. 1674. Revision of Paradise Lost. Died, November 8. INTRODUCTION I.— THE LIFE OF MILTON JOHN MILTON was born in London, December 9, 1608, and there died November 8, 1674. His life is usually divided, very helpfully, into three periods: The first period, 1608-1639, includes his childhood and school-days, his stay of seven years at the University, his retirement for further study to his father's country home in Horton, and his travels on the Continent. The period is one of preparation for his chosen profession of poet. To it belong his lyrical poems, all but a few sonnets, and the dra- matic poems. Arcades and Comus. During the second period, 1639-1660, he laid aside poetry for prose. An ardent advocate of the Puritan cause, he wrote, on the outbreak of civil war, a series of tracts in behalf of po- Utical and religious liberty, served the Puritan Commonwealth as Latin Secretary, and was its appointed defender against the attacks directed against it by the exiled Royalists. In the third period, 1660-1674, he lived, after the down- fall of the Commonwealth, in retirement, and returned to his proper vocation, poetry. Apart from a few prose works of minor importance, he was engaged during this period upon the great epics, Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, and the drama, Samson Agonistes, upon which his fame chiefly rests. Gracious influences surrounded Milton from childhood. John Milton, his father, was a man of culture, a lover of learn- ing and literature, and a musician of sufficient skill, though an amateur, to win some distinction as a composero He had become well-to-do as a scrivener, or law-stationer, and was xiv MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS able, as he was eager, to give the most gifted of his children every advantage. Milton early showed promise as a student. He was prepared for the University by private tutors and at St. Paul's School, entered Christ's College, Cambridge, at the age of seventeen, remained there seven years, and received successively the Bachelor's and the Master's degrees. As a mere lad in college, endowed as he was with excep- tional strength of intellect and will, he seems to have displayed the independence of character arid consciousness of supe- riority which marked him through life and which rendered him impatient of control and intolerant in judgment. In any one less serious and sincere, less eager and able to attain the highest excellence, his self-sufficiency and his tendency to find fault with the moral standards of others would have been still graver defects. We cannot, however, convict him of mere vanity and priggishness. He truly possessed, as he wrote later of himself in reference to his college days, "a certain niceness [i. e., fastidiousness] of nature, an honest haughtiness and self-esteem of what I was or what I might be (which let envy call pride), and lastly that modesty whereof . . . though not in the title-page, yet here I may be excused to make some becoming profession." He was certainly an unusual student — not so much in the assurance with which he criticised, in part justly, the disciphne and teaching of the college authori- ties, and stiJl more the manners and morals of his fellow- students, who gave him the mocking title of "Lady," but in the fact that he had already set before himself a definite am- bition, to be a poet and write on the highest themes, and had marked out for himself the means to attain it. After some little friction he found a way to lead his own life and win the full measure of profit he desired. An idea may be gained of the character and aim of his studies from his retrospect of his life at the University. He speaks of reading in the "grave orators" and historians and poets, and of the necessity he felt, in that in these evil and good were blended, of exercising care in taking what was good and leaving what was unworthy. It was not long after, he says, that he was confirmed in the opin- INTRODUCTION xv ion "that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem, that is, a composition and pattern of the best and hon- orablest things; not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men or famous cities, unless he have in himself the experi- ence and the practice of all that which is praiseworthy." Upon this lofty aim he concentrated himself, unheeding what standards might satisfy others or what prizes they might seek to gain — striving, with increasing knowledge, to maintain in his personal conduct ever loftifer ideals of virtue, and, in his studies, bending every effort not merely to survey, but to make his own, in absolute conquest, whatever might contribute to those ideals in ancient and modern literatures, history, philosophy, and theology, with the intent to render a part of himself whatever they might teach him of truth, eloquence, and poetry. Nor did he make the mistake of centring his life in books to the exclusion of other things important in their place. Naturally well-formed and graceful — notably handsome, it may be added, as well — he was careful to perfect himself in the arts and accomplishments, such as horseman- ship and fencing, appropriate to a gentleman. The verse he wrote while at the University, even allowing for later careful revision, displays abundant promise. More particularly are to be noted the ode. On the Morning of Christ's Nativity, At a Solemn Music, On Shakespeare, and the son- net On His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three. It had been his father's hope that Milton would take orders in the Established Church, but, before he left the University, he had decided this to be impossible. All his sympathies were with the Puritan movement, which had been slowly gathering strength since the preceding century and in a few years was to lead to civil war. The Church in England after the Reformation was in law a national church, and in- cluded nominally every subject of the throne, its constituted head. Many, however, refused allegiance to it, being op- posed to its doctrines or practice in various ways; indeed, among its professed members, there were wide differences of xvi MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS opinion. So, in time, there arose, within and without the Church, the Puritan party. Properly, at the outset, the term Puritan might apply to any one who made seriousness and sobriety of life a ruling principle, and regarded with disapproval the worldliness and laxity of life, with much that was scandalously evil, which characterized the Court circle in general and not a few of the bishops and clergy. More narrowly the term became identi- fied with those who objected to doctrines or practices retained in the Church which they considered as "Popish," who be- lieved that the Sabbath should be rigidly observed throughout as a day of prayer and meditation and not used in part as a holiday for recreation and merrymaking, and who insisted that the teachings of the Bible should be the sole rule and guide to the exclusion of the traditions of the Church. Some, moreover, did not believe in the union of the Church and State, and an important body, the Presbyterians, objected to the clerical orders, especially that of bishops, as not. in ac- cordance with the practice of the primitive church as estab- lished by Christ. Others wholly abjured the doctrine and authority of the Established Church — the so-called Inde- pendents, among whom the Baptists formed a notable body, with many minor sects, over a hundred, it is said, in the time of the Commonwealth. Even from this brief outline it is plain what a variety of opinions and shades of opinion upon a host of religious and political questions individual Puritans rep- resented. God-fearing and God-seeking men there were on both sides. Also, on the other hand, many among the non- Puritans were utterly self-seeking and unprincipled, and many among the Puritans were ignorant and intolerant bigots and fanatics, wholly wild and unreasonable. It is important to remember that the struggle originally was not between a Church party on the one hand and a Puritan party on the other; it went oh within the Church itself. On one side within the Church were the " Prelatists," so called as led by the bishops, who, either through honest belief or motives of selfish interest, used every means, includ- INTRODUCTION xvii ing cruel persecution, to uphold the authority of the Church against what they termed unlicensed liberty of the individual conscience, and to maintain the clerical orders with their rights and privileges and the connection of Church and State, on which the Church's wealth and poHtical power depended. On the other side, within the Church as well as without, were the Puritans, not necessarily opposed, many of them, in their individual beliefs to Church doctrine or practice in general, but maintaining the right of individual liberty of conscience, and (a large part of them) opposing the order of bishops and in particular condemning the manner of life of many of the adherents of the Prelatical party. Milton's father was a Puritan Churchman — he had been disinherited for becom- ing a Protestant. So also by inheritance was Milton, but, at the time he was at the University, the struggle between the two parties had for long been sharp and bitter, and it was the selfish worldliness, greed, tyranny, and arrogance of the Prelatical party, their injustice and cruelty in the repression of the Puritans, that made it impossible for him to take orders. He had been "church-outed," he said, "by the prelates." Later he was to break with all the organized religious bodies of his time. On leaving the University, Milton went to his father's house in Horton in the midst of lovely country not far from London. His father did not press the question of a pro- fession, and for five years he continued the course of study and meditation he had marked out for himself at the Uni- versity. The time of preparation was long, but the fruits of it may be seen in the breadth and accuracy of his scholarship, the wealth of material he gathered for his poetry, the ex- quisite sensitiveness of his taste, and that perfected power of appreciating the just values and relations of things which con- stitutes culture. He held his purpose clear before him — to be a poet and sing. the loftiest themes — and spared no labor, re- lieving his close study by walks and music and occasional visits to London to procure books. Toward the close of the five years he became a little impatient of his long seclu- xviii MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS sion, but even then did not believe himself ready. To Charles Diodati, the dearly beloved friend of his school-days, he wrote, "Hear me, my Diodati, and suffer me for a moment to speak without blushing in a more lofty strain. Do you ask what I am meditating? By the help of Heaven, an immortality of fame. But what am I doing ? irrepocpvC}, I am letting my wings grow and preparing to fly; but my Pegasus has not feather enough to soar aloft in the fields of air." Finally in 1638 he left Horton for the Continent with the special object of visiting Italy. His charm of manner and scholarly at- tainments caused him to be received with marked distinction in Paris, Florence, Rome, and Naples. News of the polit- ical situation in England cut short his travels; he thought it base to be travelling for pleasure when his fellow-country- men were contending for their liberty. Returning in 1639, he took lodgings in London, later leasing a comfortable house with a garden in Aldersgate Street. Here the first period of his lif ' closes. While at Horton he had composed L' Allegro and It ^enseroso, Arcades, Comus, and Lycidas. In Italy he wrote his Italian sonnets and a Latin poem addressed to the Italian patron of learning and letters, Manso. Upon his return he wrote an elegiac poem in Latin on the death of his friend Diodati. Now, save for a few sonnets, he was to bid farewell to poetry for nearly twenty years. Settled in London, Milton undertook the teaching of his two nephews. Several other pupils were in time added, forming a small school. His real occupation, however, was with the religious and political controversy which was en- gaging all men's minds. The burning question of the mo- ment was the form of church government which should pre- vail in the Established Church. Twice the King had sent armies into Presbyterian Scotland and had been repulsed. Between these two campaigns he had convened Parliament to obtain money, had been presented instead with a petition for the redress of grievances, and had ordered its dissolution. This Parliament, because of its short session, is called the "Short Parliament." Failing in his second campaign, he INTRODUCTION xix convoked what is termed from its long session the "Long Parhament." Milton at once lent his aid in opposition to Episcopacy. His series of pamphlets, four in all, appeared in 1641, 1642. In 1643 he surprised his friends by suddenly marrying a young girl belonging to a Royalist family, Mary Powell. After little more than a month she left him and they remained separated for two years, when they were reunited. She died in 1653 or 1654, leaving three daughters. Milton's separation from his wife led to his writing, in 1643-1645, four pamphlets in behalf of divorce. In 1644 he published his most notable prose work, the Areopagitica, a plea for the liberty of unlicensed printing, that is, for a free press. In the same year appeared a tractate. On Education, and, in 1645, the first edition of his poems. He was also engaged at inter- vals upon a history of England, not completed till much later; and he composed at various times a few sonnets. An important change in his life came in the year 1649. For seven years war had been waged between the JP.'^yalists and the Parliamentary forces. It ceased for a time with the King's capture by the Scotch allies. A part of the Parlia- mentary party favored the establishment of a State Church under the Presbyterian form of government without recognition of the Independents. Others, including Cromwell and the army, favored, and were successful in obtaining, entire Uberty of conscience and worship. After fruitless negotiations, an alliance between the King and the Scots led to a renewal of civil war, the capture of the King by the Parliamentary army, and finally, in 1649, his trial and execution. There were many, even among those opposed to the King, who regarded this act with horror. Milton was not one of these; he defended and justified it in his Tenure of Kings and Magistrates. His abil- ity as a controversialist, as well as his learning and scholar- ship, led to his appointment as Latin Secretary to the Com- mittee of Foreign Affairs. In addition to purely secretarial duties, he answered attacks upon the new Commonwealth. The Eikon Basilike ("Royal Image"), designed to arouse pity and indignation for the King's death and passing for a time XX MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS as the work of the King himself, Milton met with a tractate entitled Eikonoklastes ("The Image Breaker"). In the fol- lowing year, Salmasius of Leyden, perhaps the most notable scholar of the day, put forth, under commission of the Royalists in exile, his Defensio Regia. Milton, in his Pro Populo Anglicano and a Defensio Secunda, published after his op- ponent's death, disposed of Salmasius and those who had taken the place of Salmasius in the controversy with such ef- fectiveness that Europe was astonished alike by his command of Latin and his powers of argument and invective. From childhood Milton's eyesight had been weakened by assiduous study. In spite of the warning conveyed by his losing the use of one eye, he persisted in his labors for the Commonwealth, and in 1652 had become totally blind. He still held his post as Secretary with the aid of an assistant, until, with the year 1660, came the Restoration and the ruin of the cause he had toiled to uphold. Here his second period closes. Critics are at one in deploring Milton's devotion during nearly twenty years to controversial writing. It was a loss to poetry in any case, and, except for the Areopagitica, a truly noble work, together with scattered passages of genuine ele- vation and eloquence in other works, one might well wish the prose works of this period had never been written. Milton was inspired by a true passion for liberty, but, unfortunately, he was constantly preoccupied in meeting vile personal abuse with abuse as vile. It seems almost incredible that so naturally fine a nature should have descended to such offensive person- alities and scurrilities as he employed. The fact displays, perhaps, the violent extremes to which a sensitive and refined spirit may be driven in forcing itself to do what is naturally ahen to its temperament and disposition. It must have seemed as if the Restoration spelled irrevoca- ble disaster to the poet. But, blind tTiough he was, ruined in fortune as a political outlaw, in danger of his life and in hiding till the Act of Indemnity left him safe, none the less no event could have been more fortunate both for him and for the world. Critics agree that his twenty years of controversy left Milton narrowed and hardened, and with his natural tendency INTRODUCTION xxi to harshness and intolerance increased. We may not say, however, that it lessened the great powers that were now to justify themselves in transcendent poetic achievement. Al- ready in 1642 the first conception of Paradise Lost had appeared among a number of his notes of subjects for dramas and poems. The poet's intention then seems to have been to treat this sub- ject in dramatic form, and he appears to have then actually begun such a drama. He took up the theme again in the form of an epic in 1658, completed it in 1665, and published it in 1667. The poet's Quaker friend, Elwood, who was the first to read it, suggested by an inquiry its continuation in Paradise Regained, which was pubhshed in 1671. With it was published Samson Agonistes, a play in which the poet speaks of him- self under the guise of the bUnded Samson, and which is adjudged to approach more nearly than any other work in Eng- lish to the simplicity and sublimity of Greek tragedy. Sev- eral prose works belong also to this period— the History of Britain, begun long before, a pamphlet on True Religion, Heresy, Schism, and Toleration, not free from Milton's own intolerance, a History of Muscovy, a Latin grammar, a treatise in Latin on logic, and an extended exposition, also in Latin, of Christian doctrine. Milton's life during this third period was fairly peaceful, despite the insubordination of his daughters, on whom he laid tasks beyond their ability in the help he required of them in his writing — they even, it is said, sold his books secretly to get money for their needs — with the result, finally, that they were sent away to shift for themselves. A second marriage, con- tracted in 1656, had lasted only two years ; he married a third time in 1663. His days were quietly spent in reading and dic- tation, in caring for his garden, and in the enjoyment of music, to which he was devoted throughout his life, either playing him- self on the organ or listening to his wife singing. He had friends, and visitors were drawn to his house by his reputation for learn- ing and through admiration for his poetry. He died in 1674, and was buried in St. Giles' Church, Cripplegate, London, beside his father. jcxii MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS IL— THE POETRY OF MILTON Like all great poets, Milton was indebted in part to the in- fluences of his time, in part to the instinctive leadings of his individual genius and temperament. His first period lies within the close of the Elizabethan era, and his verse evidences his close study of its poets, greater and less. Of these Spenser, like himself Puritan and interpreter of ideals of virtue in poetry, was his acknowledged master, and to Shakespeare — especially in the use of the felicitous phrase, forming a poem in itself — his debt was not small. But more important than such inspiration is the fact that he, himself, is Elizabethan, and displays the same influences (working, moreover, directly within him, not through others) that made the Elizabethan period so great. He has been called the last of the Elizabethans, and with truth, if his relations to his age are rightly understood. One main influence in the Elizabethan period was the Renais- sance, and the new conceptions of life, scholarship, philosophy, and literature it brought to England from France and Spain, but most of all from Italy, where earliest and most fully the change from mediaeval habits of thought, summed under the term, were worked out. These new conceptions opened a new world of opportunity, and, in their full fruition in Eng- land toward the close of the sixteenth century, created men of genius in such array as no other period in any country has equalled, drawing them from every station of life. The liter- ature of the Elizabethan period is characterized by its appar- ently exhaustless creative energy, its delight in the new beauty it sought for, found, and expressed, its extension of the range of poetic conceptions and forms, its spontaneity and freshness. This spirit and temper in literature, centring in the eager search for and delight in the expression of new beauty, is known by the term "romantic." Milton's inspiration, as we shall INTRODUCTION xxiii see in a moment, was romantic in this sense. On the o'ther hand, we must recall that Milton's life extended to 1674. Dur- ing his lifetime, a change was coming over poetry. The age had become more serious and reflective under the influence of Puritanism and the awakening interest in scientific thought. Milton's contemporaries, like him, drew inspiration from their great forerunners; but a slackening of poetic energy can be perceived, the verse, while often of great beauty, is of a more grave and sober tone, more self-conscious, and there is a ten- dency to model it on a set pattern. At the close of the century poetry had become in general rhetorical; it is made to con- form to what has grown to be the accepted taste of the time and not a fresh image and form* of beauty conceived in th% poet's mind. Poetry of this marked tendency is called "dUssical*," as if patterned on a model held to be of classical excellence. It seeks to appeal to the reader by treating with superior distinc- tion subjects within a special range which are dictated by the taste of the time as poetic, and in a special form demanded by that taste. In brief, the taste of the time becomes the test of poetic excellence, not the poet's instinctive sense, freely exer- cised, of what is beautiful. It is because Milton livjed while this change was going on, but is not affected by it, that he may truly be called the last of the Elizabethans. He was a true Elizabethan in that he was a law unto himself as regards his conception of the beauty proper to poetry. Still more, he was a true Elizabethan in searching out and discovering for himself new stores of poetic beauty. This he did, most notably, in his use of the poetry of the ancients, especially Latin poetry, which he had studied so ardently at school, at the University, and at Horton, during his period of preparation. Others before him, of course, his own master Spenser, for example, had drawn upon this poetry, and use of it is common enough in Elizabethan literature. But no one had studied it as he had done, or at least to such profit, with the set intent of writing worthily in English verse. Where others merely touched the surface and carried away an occasional phrase or image, he explore and made his own an immense xxiv MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS treasure. The world of classic literature is to him what Italian literature was to the earlier Elizabethans, a new world of beauty to be brought over into English verse. This was one main source of his verse. The Bible was an- other. If his deep piety constrained his reverence for the Scriptures, if his preoccupation with moral and religious ideals led him to its study and use, by no means any the less was his appreciation of the beauty of its sublime conceptions, its graphic imagery, the verbal felicity of the English version whose phrases are so often transferred bodily to his lines. A point of the greatest importance in this connection is the fact that in the common appeal to him of classic literature and of the Scriptures through the element of poetic beauty, the two became as if one to him. That is why he fails to feel a difference in kind between Hebrew and Christian ideas and conceptions and classical ideas and conceptions. He does not hesitate to fuse them together, to pass from one to the other, seemingly unconsciously, in his verse, in a way that would be quite im- possible to-day. This failure to feel unlikeness in kind, this willingness to bring together things dissimilar, so long as each in its kind contributes to the poetic purpose in hand, is essen- tially characteristic of the Renaissance. If we see clearly that Milton was essentially an Elizabethan, it is in the next place important to remember that he desired to perfect himself as poet that he might express moral ideas, set forth ideals of virtue in his verse. Moral ideas are, of course, wholly suitable themes for poetry, though no one should make the mistake common enough though so evident, of thinking that literature or any other art exists or should exist for, or that ex- cellence therein is bound up with, the expression of moral ideas. Most surely poetry may express moral ideas, but it must do this in a manner proper to poetry, or the result is not poetry but something else. No poet can concern himself with the expression of moral ideas that need didactic treatment, the method of the teacher, exposition, argument, and exhortation, without endangering the quality of his poetry. With Milton the moral purpose is as constantly in mind as the artistic. In INTRODUCTION xxv his verse from Comus through the great epics to Samson Ago- nistes appear innumerable passages in which the moral purpose is at variance with his instinctive poetic inspiration. This is one reason, together with the studied perfection of his style and its chastened severity due to his study of the ancients, why many find fault with his poetry as being rhetorical. Rhe- torical it seldom or never is in a bad sense. His emotional sen^ sitiveness to beauty, his exquisite taste, the divine energy of his genius, his exaltation of vision, lift even passages of argument and moralizing above the. plane of rhetoric and insure them, as by a miracle, some measure of the quality of magic that be- longs to the highest poetry. In considering the relation of Milton's themes, his subject matter, to the form of its expression, it may be noted that his Elizabethan passion -for beauty was regulated and controlled by his study of the classics, and often to greater or' less extent chilled and obstructed by didacticism. It is also necessary to point out, as Bagehot and others have done, that Milton's mind was not fruitful in varied thought and reflection. In Shakespeare, and in many poets inferior to Milton, the centratl theme, the character of the speaker as dramatically conceived by the poet, a special incident in hand, suggestions of v^-ious sorts, inspire thoughts that possess independent value and ap- peal apart from their relation to the immediate theme. In Milton there is little or nothing of this. His mind concentrated itself upon a single idea, and this is repeated and reinforced, unattended by associated or suggested thoughts. But on the other hand he employs in the expression of the single idea a multiplicity -oi imagery and illustration, drawing upon the seemingly exhaustless stores of his reading and observation. The poems in this volume display this characteristic; to it rather 4;han to lack, of dramatic power may be referred his weakness in characterization both in the epics and in Samson Agonistes; his prose works also are all variations, without ad- vance and development, upon single themes. In the words of Bagehot, "We have a superficial complexity in illustration and imagery and metaphor, and in contrast with it we observe a xxvi MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS latent simplicity of idea, an almost rude strength of concep- tion. The underlying thoughts are few, though the flowers on the surface are so many." Whence, we may next ask, did Milton derive this wealth of imagery and illustration ? How far was he indebted to nature and life directly, how far to books? No one can doubt that Milton was observant of the world about him, that he loved and drew from nature, though, like other seventeenth-century poets, the nature he preferred was one subdued to a kindly relation with man's life — flowers, trees in smooth meadows, the gently gliding stream, a smiling countryside. He was not a close student of individual facts, and lacks the intimate touches that show close sympathetic observation. In brief, it is evident that whatever his inclination or ability to observe facts in human life or in nature directly, the main source of his poetic material was derived from books. His indebtedness in words, phrases, allusions, images, to his predecessors in Eng- lish verse, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Fletcher, Browne, Quarles, Drayton, and many another, and in incalculable measure to the Latin and Greek poets he studied so assidu- ously, appears everywhere. But, be it carefully noted, this is not a mere borrowing, a bodily transference to his verse of what served his purpose. In all cases he is guided by his in- fallible perception of truth and beauty, and he makes what he takes his own, giving it a new, individual, and imperishable beauty of form and setting. No doubt, as Bagehot has said, he was often unaware at the moment, so stored was his mind with the fruits of his reading, that he was using what in some form had been used before. Moreover, beautiful images and allu- sions wholly original with him are also innumerable. Before summing up the qualities of Milton's verse, a word is necessary in regard to its metrical structure. It is of prime importance to remember that it is in every respect true English verse, idiomatic in its observance, even where most individual and characteristic, of English traditions. It might be supposed that Milton, in his writing of verse, might have been influenced to model it in some way upon that of the classic poets he studied INTRODUCTION xxvii so closely, just as he now and again introduces a Latin locution into his English diction. But he does not — the balance and movement of his blank-verse line may have caught something from classic verse, but the metre is Enghsh. Individual pe- culiarities there are in his verse, but these are not departures from English tradition — they are his own consciously adopted licenses in following out that tradition. How essentially English his verse is may be seen in the fact that his blank-verse line not infrequently has only four chief accents, a form of line traceable back to the Old English alliterative long line. Milton's place in English literature and in the literature of the world is due to two causes of somewhat different kind. The first is the sustained elevation of poetic quality in his verse, both epic and lyric, notable even where a didactic purpose is present — an elevation due at once to energy of inspiration, re- finement of critical taste, and the amassed riches of his reading. It has often been said that if he had written nothing but the shorter poems of his first period, he would have taken a place in the first rank of English poets. His indebtedness to the past, his aspiration to emulate or to transcend its worthiest poetry, his scrupulous loyalty to the highest ideals of taste, would by themselves have insured his verse a high place in the literature of the world; but also, in addition, he essayed in Paradise Lost and in Paradise Regained at once the most sublime and the most difficult themes possible, the Fall and Redemption of Man. To this task, in addition to his poetic genius and train- ing, he brought the inspiration of the loftiest faith and moral purpose, impHcit trust in his own powers, and a concentration of will in which was bound up the anticipations of a lifetime. Matured as he was within the influences of the Renaissance, he never dreamed of any inartistic incongruity in combining material of whatever kind that lay to his hand, biblical and classical. Christian and pagan, mythical or drawn from the advanced scientific thought of his day. Nor did he hesitate, as a poet of to-day would hesitate, to picture the affairs of heaven as conducted like those of earth, in a way that sometimes makes possible the cheap ridicule of the unhistoric and irreverent xxviii MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS critic. But, despite incongruities incidental to these causes, despite the heavy burden of his didactic purpose, despite his probable deficiency in dramatic ability, he lifts his narrative not merely to the ideal elevation of the epic, but to a sublimity so far transcending the conceptions of ordinary men as to make it seem veritably an inspired record of what he describes, "things unattempted yet in prose or rime." And here, three hundred years after Milton's birth, it is worth while for a mo- ment to touch upon the question whether, as has been asserted, Milton has ever truly laid hold upon the popular heart. As criticism, such an assertion is in one sense meaningless. Such tests do not apply in such a case. An achievement like Mil- ton's, time can no more touch than it can the pinnacles of the mountain or the cathedral and its towers — save with the universal decay which is the death of time — and, like the abbeys of Eng- land, Nature "grants to it an equal date with Andes and with Ararat." But, in itself, the assertion is not true. Milton's fame is not alone due to the tributes of historians, the verdicts of critics, the homage of brother-poets — "third among the sons of light," "God-gifted organ-voice of England," — or to the fealty alone of the scholarly and "cultured" class. The. old story that he was not honored in his own time is fiction. Since that time he has always had in all classes those who made him their special poet, ])recisely in the sense in which we speak of Shake- speare or Burns or Longfellow as close to the popular heart. In England he has as j^oet commanded a veneration that links his name with Shakespeare's even among those to whom Mil- ton the man was virtually a regicide. In this country, when he finally became known, his works were placed beside the Bible alike in Puritan New England, in Quaker Pennsyl- vania, and in the South, and it was a common thing three generations ago for children or their elders to commit long passages from the epics, even whole books, to memory. And possibly it might surprise some persons who think of Milton merely as a classic, honored but unread, could they but know how many people — unliterary people — still set precious store by him to-dav. INTRODUCTION xxix If, however, many persons can pay only an intellectual tribute to the great epics, not one of real liking, all must do honor to the shorter poems included in this volume. What may the study of these poems mean to us to-day ? They are set for examina- tion, and are to be studied, because they are poems of a special beauty, of a kind to help us to understand what true poetry is and what it may mean to those who learn to care for it. There are many persons in the world who have never learned what poetry may mean to them, and who live lives so much the poorer for lack of the pleasure it may bring. There are many so igno- rant as to despise it as something only unpractical people care for, as something likely to unfit one to be sensible and practical — a wholly mistaken and absurd notion. A love for poetry is a lifelong gain. Like a love for music or painting, or, in their place, one or another bodily accomplishment, some trouble must be taken to attain it. And poems like these help one to a true appreciation of poetic beauty. Just as Milton trained his taste by the study of English and classic poets to an exquisite sensitiveness of perception, so may we to-day train and refine ours by the study of the verse in which his perfected taste found expression. One or two practical suggestions may be made. In the case of each poem, first read the special introduction given in the notes. Then read the poem itself throughout before studying it in detail. Read it aloud, for no good poetry is meant for the eye alone; the mental ear in any case — much better the physical ear — should hear it. Then turn to the study of the poem line by line, making sure that each image and allu- sion is understood, and all that Milton intended it -to convey. The notes supply the necessary information, and here a word of warning is necessary. It is not desirable to memorize the notes. If, for example, it is pointed out that the poet is indebted to some predecessor in a particular passage, the fact is of impor- tance only in illustration of his frequent use of others and his extraordinary gift of making what he took his own. This does not, of course, apply to many of the classic allusions, espe- cially in mythology, for these are often stock poetic allusions XXX MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS that should be famiUar to every one; so also the meaning of unfamiliar words, such as are part of the vocabulary of poetry, should be learned. But, in every case, it is to be remembered that these things are all of secondary and minor importance as compared with clearly understanding the verse and learning to care for its beauty of meaning and sound. It is this which is best worth while — that Milton may help us to know and to care for all good poetry. MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS I ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born. Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, 5 That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. II That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table lo To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day. And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 3 4 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS III Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 15 Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain. To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the Heaven, by the Sun's team untrod. Hath took no print of the approaching light, 20 And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? IV See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode. And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; 25 Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet. And join thy voice unto the angel choir. From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire. The Hymn It was the winter wild. While the Heaven-born Child 30 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe, to him Had doffed her gaudy trim. With her great master so to sympathize; It was no season then for her 35 To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. CHRIST'S NATIVITY Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, 40 Pollute with sinful blame, Th^ saintly veil of maiden white to throw — Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. Ill But he, her fears to cease, 45 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with ohve green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere. His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, 50 And, waving wide her myrtle wand. She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. IV No war, or battle's sound. Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high uphung; 55 The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 60 6 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS V 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 kissed, 65 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean. Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. VI The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 70 Bending one way their precious influence. And will not take their flight. For all the morning light. Or Lucifer that often warned them thence, But in their gUmmering orbs did glow, 75 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. VII And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, 80 As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. CHRIST'S NATIVITY 7 VIII The shepherds on the lawn, • 85 Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row. Full little thought they than That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; 90 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep, IX When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook, 95 Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took; The air, such pleasure loath to lose. With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. lOO 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 done, 105 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 8 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS XI At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, no That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed ; The helmed Cherubim, The sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir, 115 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. XII Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made. But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great 120 His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep. And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. XIII Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 125 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 Heaven's deep organ blow; 130 And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. CHRIST'S NATIVITY 9 XIV For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold; i35 And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die. And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 140 XV Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow, and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, 145 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. XVI But wisest Fate says no. This must not yet be so; 150 The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss. So both himself and us to glorify; Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 155 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. 10 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS XVII With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake; The aged Earth, aghast, 160 With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When at the world's last session The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. XVIII And then at last our bliss 165 Full and perfect is, But now begins; for, from this happy day, The Old Dragon under ground. In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 170 And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. XIX The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 175 Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 180 CHRIST'S NATIVITY 11 XX The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edged with poplar pale, i85 , The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. XXI In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, 190 The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flam ens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195 While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. XXII Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim. With that twice-battered god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, 200 Heaven's queen and mother both. Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 12 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS XXIII And sullen Moloch, fled, 205 Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; 210 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus and the dog Anubis, haste. XXIV Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green. Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud, 215 Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark. The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. 220 XXV He feels from Judah's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem bhnd his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, 225 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddhng bands control the damnM crew. CHRIST'S NATIVITY 13 XXVI So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, 230 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost sHps to his several grave. And the yellow-skirted fays 235 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. XXVII But seel the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heaven's youngest-teemed star 240 Hath fixed her poHshed car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. II ON SHAKESPEARE, 1630 What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart lo Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 15 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 14 Ill ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT 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 or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 5 That I to manhood am arrived so near. And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Than some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even lo To that same lot, however mean or high. Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye. 15 IV L'ALLEGRO Hence, loathM Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born. In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell, 5 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings. And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. lo But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more 16 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring. Zephyr with Aurora playing. As he met her once a-Maying, 20 There, on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. Filled her with thee a daughter fair. So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 16 L'ALLEGRO 17 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 Jest and youthful JolHty, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek; so Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe, And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And, if I give thee honor due. Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: ■ 40 To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise, Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 And at my window bid good morrow Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. From the side of some hoar hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill; 18 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Some time walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate. Where the great sun begins his state, 60 Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. Whilst the landskip round it measures; 70 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 Shallow brooks and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees. Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; L'ALLEGRO 19 Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round. And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid 95 Dancing in the checkered shade. And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, lOO With stories told of many a feat, How Faery Mab the junkets eat. She was pinched and pulled, she said. And he, by friar's lanthorn led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-laborers could not end. Then Ues him down, the lubber fiend, no And stretched out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, ii5 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then. And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 120 20 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS With stores of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear 125 In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry. With mask, and antique pageantry: Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child. Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, 135 Lap me in soft Lydian airs. Married to immortal verse. Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 140 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony. That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. 150 These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. V IL PENSEROSO Hence, vain deluding joys, The brood of folly without father bred! How little you bested. Or fill the fixM mind with all your toys I Dwell in some idle brain, 5 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, ' The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. lo But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And therefore to our weaker view 15 O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above 20 The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended. Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore. To solitary Saturn bore, — 21 22 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, . 25 Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain. Flowing with majestic train. And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait. And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes. 40 There held in holy passion still. Forget thyself to marble, till, With a sad leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 '■' V' Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing. And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; so But, first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing. Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 55 'Less Philomel will deign a song, IL PENSEROSO 23 In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er th' accustomed oak. 60 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-watered shore 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar; l\ Or, if the air will not permit. Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, ! so Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour 85 Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 24 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions hold 90 The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook, And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or underground, Whose power hath a true consent 95 With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous tragedy y^ In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine. loo Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musseus from his bower. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 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, no Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; ii5 And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys, and of trophies hung; Of forests, and enchantments drear. Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 IL PENSEROSO 25 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear. Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt. But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 125 While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, ~p^ When the gust hath blown his fill. Ending on the rustling leaves. With minute drops from off the eaves. 130 And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of pine or monumental oak, 135 Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt. Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, 140 Hide me from day's garish eye. While the bee with honied thigh. That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring. With such consort as they keep, 145 Entice the dewy-feathered sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of Hvely portraiture displayed. Softly on my eyelids laid; iso And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about or underneath, MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail 155 To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof. And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light. 160 There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced choir below. In service high and anthems clear As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage. The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 Of every star that heaven doth shew. And every herb that sips the dew. Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 175 And I with thee will choose to Hve. VI COMUS THE PERSONS The Attendant Spirit, afterward in the habit of Thyrsis. CoMus, with his crew. The Lady. First Brother. Second Brother. Sabrina, the Nymph. The chief persons which presented were: The Lord Brackley, Mr. Thomas Egerton, his brother. The Lady Alice Egerton. The first scene discovers a wild wood. The Attendant Spirit descends or enters. Spirit. Before the starry threshold of Jove's court My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 5 Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted care, Confined and pestered in this pin-fold here. Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives, After this mortal change, to her true servants, lo Amongst the enthroned gods, on sainted seats. Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 27 28 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity: To such my errand is, and, but for such, 15 I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mould. But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream, Took in by lot, 'twixt high and nether Jove, 20 Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles. That like to rich and various gems inlay The unadorned bosom of the deep; Which he, to grace his tributary gods. By course commits to several government, 25 And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns And wield their little tridents. But this Isle, The greatest and the best of all the main. He quarters to his blue-haired deities; And all this tract that fronts the falHng sun 30 A noble Peer of mickle trust and power Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide An old and haughty nation, proud in arms: Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore, Are coming to attend their father's state, 35 And new-intrusted sceptre. But their way Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood. The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger. And here their tender age might suffer peril, 40 But that, by quick command from sovran Jove, I was despatched for their defence and guard. And listen why — for I will tell you now What never yet was heard in tale or song, COMUS 29 From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 45 Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine, After the Tuscan mariners transformed. Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed, On Circe's island fell (who knows not Circe, so The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, And downward fell into a groveUing swine?). This nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks With ivy berries wreathed and his bhthe youth, 55 Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son Much like his father, but his mother more, Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named : Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age. Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields, 60 At last betakes him to this ominous wood. And, in thick shelter of black shades embowered, Excels his mother at her mighty art, Offering to every weary traveller His orient liquor in a crystal glass, 65 To quench the drouth of Phoebus, which as they taste (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst), Soon as the potion works, their human countenance, The express resemblance of the gods, is changed Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear, 70 Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat. All other parts remaining as they were; And they, so perfect is their misery, Not once perceive their foul disfigurement. But boast themselves more comely than before, 75 30 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS And all their friends and native home forget, To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. Therefore, when any favored of high Jove Chances to pass through this adventurous glade. Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star so I shoot from heaven to give him safe convoy, As now I do. But first I must put off These my sky robes, spun out of Iris' woof, And take the weeds and Ukeness of a swain That to the service of this house belongs, 85 Who with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar And hush the waving woods; nor of less faith. And in this office of his mountain watch Likeliest and nearest to the present aid 90 Of this occasion. But I hear the tread Of hateful steps; I must be viewless now. CoMus enters with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of loild beasts, hut otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands. Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold Now the top of heaven doth hold. And the gilded car of day _ 95 His glowing axle doth allay In the steep Atlantic stream; And the slope sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky pole, Pacing toward the other goal lOO Of his chamber in the east. COMUS 31 Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast, Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity. Braid your locks with rosy twine, i05 Dropping odors, dropping wine. Rigor now is gone to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head, Strict Age, and sour Severity, With their grave saws, in slumber lie. no We that are of purer fire Imitate the starry choir, Who in their nightly watchful spheres Lead in swift round the months and years. The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, ii5 Now to the moon in wavering morris move; And on the tawny sands and shelves Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves; By dimpled brook, and fountain brim. The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim, 120 Their merry wakes and pastimes keep. What hath night to do with sleep ? Night hath better sweets to prove — Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. Come, let us our rites begin! 125 'T is only daylight that makes sin. Which these dun shades will ne'er report. Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame Of midnight torches burns — mysterious dame, 130 That ne'er art called but when the dragon womb , Of Stygian darkness spits her thickest gloom And makes one blot of all the air — 32 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Stay thy cloudy ebon chair. Wherein thou ridest with Hecate, and befriend 135 Us, thy vowed priests, till utmost end Of all thy dues be done and none left out, Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn on the Indian steep, From her cabined loophole peep, 140 And to the telltale Sun descry Our concealed solemnity. Come, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastic round. The Measure. '/ Break off! break off! I feel the different pace i45 Of some chaste footing near about this ground. Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees; Our number may affright — some virgin, sure, (For so I can distinguish by mine art) Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms, iso And to my wily trains. I shall ere long Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl My dazzling spells into the spongy air. Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion 155 And give it false presentments, lest the place And my quaint habits breed astonishment, And put the damsel to suspicious flight: Which must not be, for that's against my course. I, under fair pretence of friendly ends leo And well-placed words of glozing courtesy. Baited with reasons not unplausible. COMUS 33 Wind me into the easy-hearted man And hug him into snares. When once her eye Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 165 I shall appear some harmless villager, Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear. But here she comes; I fairly step aside And hearken, if I may, her business here. The Lady enters. Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, i70 My best guide now. Methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds, When for their teeming flocks and granges full 175 In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence Of such late wassailers; yet oh, where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 180 In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge Under the spreading favor of these pines. Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-side i85 To bring me berries or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 190 But where they are, and why they came not back, 34 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Is now the labor of my thoughts: 't is likeliest They had engaged their wandering steps too far, And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish Night, i95 Why should'st thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, That Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps With everlasting oil, to give due light To the misled and lonely traveller? 200 This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth Was rife and perfect in my listening ear; Yet naught but single darkness do I find. What might this be? A thousand fantasies 205 Begin to throng into my memory Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire. And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound, 210 The virtuous mind that ever walks attended By a strongsiding champion. Conscience. — welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings. And thou unblemished form of Chastity, 215 1 see ye visibly, and now believe That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance. Would send a glistering guardian, if need were. To keep my life and honor unassailed. 220 Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night? I did not err, there does a sable cloud COMUS 35 Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. 225 I cannot halloo to my brothers, but Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest I'll venture, for my new-enlivened spirits Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off. Song Sweet Echoy sweetest nymph, that livst unseen 230 Within thy airy shell By slow Meander s mar gent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the lovelorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well, 235 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That nicest thy Narcissus aref O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave. Tell me but where, 240 Sweet Queen of Parley, daughter of the sphere, So mayest thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all heavens harmonies. Enter Comus. Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? 245 Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings 36 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Of silence through the empty-vauUed night, 250 At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the Sirens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 255 Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul And lap it in elysium. Scylla wept. And chid her barking waves into attention. And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause. Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense 26O And in sweet madness robbed it of itself. But such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss, I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. And she shall be my queen. — Hail, foreign wonder! 265 Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, •Unless the goddess that in rural shrine Dwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest song Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 270 Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise That is addressed to unattending ears. Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift How to regain my severed company. Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo 275 To give me answer from her mossy couch. Comus. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus ? Lady. Dim darkness, and this leavy labyrinth. Comiis. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides ? Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 280 COMUS 37 Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring. Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady ? Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick return. Comus. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 285 Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit! Comus. Imports their loss, beside the present need ? Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. Comus. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom ? Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 290 Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labored ox In his loose traces from the furrow came. And the swinked hedger at his supper sat. I saw them under a green mantling vine That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 295 Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. Their port was more than human, as they stood; r took it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element. That in the colors of the rainbow live 300 And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck. And as I passed, I worshipped. If those you seek, It were a journey like the path to heaven To help you find them. La(£y. Gentle villager, What readiest way would bring me to that place? 305 Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, In such a scant allowance of starlight. Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 310 Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green, 38 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood, And every bosky bourne from side to side, My daily walks and ancient neighborhood; And if your stray attendance be yet lodged ■ 815 Or shroud within these limits, I shall know Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark From her thatched pallet rouse. If otherwise, I can conduct you, lady, to a low But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 320 Till further quest. Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word, And trust thy honest-offered courtesy, Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds With smoky rafters than in tapestry halls And courts of princes, where it first was named 325 And yet is most pretended. In a place Less warranted than this, or less secure, I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportioned strength ! Shepherd, lead on. 330 Enter the Two Brothers. Elder Brother. Unmuffle, ye faint stars, and thou, fair moon, That wontest to love the traveller's benison. Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, And disinherit Chaos that reigns here In double night of darkness and of shades, 335 Or, if your influence be quite dammed up With black usurping mists, some gentle taper, Though a rush candle from the wicker hole Of some clay habitation, visit us COMUS 39 With thy long levelled rule of streaming light, 340 And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, Or Tyrian Cynosure. Second Brother. Or, if our eyes Be barred that happiness, might we but hear The folded flocks penned in their wattled cotes. Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, 345 Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night-watches to his feathery dames, *T would be some solace yet, some little cheering. In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. But oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister! 350 Where may she wander now, whither betake her From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and this- tles? Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now. Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm Leans her unpillowed head fraught with sad fears. 355 What if in wild amazement and affright. Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp Of savage hunger or of savage heat? Elder Brother. Peace, brother, be not over-exquisite To cast the fashion of uncertain evils, 360 For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown. What need a man forestall his date of grief. And run to meet what he would most avoid ? Or if they be but false alarms of fear. How bitter is such self-delusion! 365 I do not think my sister so to seek. Or so unprincipled in virtue's book And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever. As that the single want of Hght and noise 40 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS (Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 370 Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts And put them into misbecoming plight. Virtue could see to do what Virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self 375 Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude. Where with her best nurse. Contemplation, She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings That in the various bustle of resort Were all-to-ruffled and sometimes impaired. 380 He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon. Second Brother. 'T is most true 385 That musing meditation most affects The pensive secrecy of desert cell. Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds. And sits as safe as in a senate-house. For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 390 His few books, or his beads, or maple dish. Or do his gray hairs any violence? But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Of dragon-watch wdth unenchanted eye 395 To save her blossoms and defend her fruit From the rash hand of bold Incontinence. You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 400 COMUS 41 Danger will wink on opportunity And let a single helpless maiden pass Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. Of night or loneliness it recks me not; I fear the dread events that dog them both, 405 Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person Of our unowned sister. Elder Brother. I do not, brother, Infer as if I thought my sister's state Secure without all doubt or controversy; Yet where an equal poise of hope and fear 410 Does arbitrate the event, my nature is That I incline to hope rather than fear, And gladly banish squint suspicion. My sister is not so defenceless left As you imagine; she has a hidden strength 415 Which you remember not. Second Brother. What hidden strength. Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that ? Elder Brother. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own ; 'T is chastity, my brother, chastity — 420 She that has that is clad in complete steel, And like a quivered nymph with arrows keen May trace huge forests and unharbored heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, 425 No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer Will dare to soil her virgin purity. Yea, there where very desolation dwells. By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades. She may pass on with unblenched majesty, 430 42 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Be it not done in pride or in presumption. Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen. Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, 435 No goblin, or swart faery of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. Do ye beUeve me yet, or shall I call Antiquity from the old schools of Greece To testify the arms of chastity? 440 Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, Fair silver-shafted queen forever chaste. Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness And spotted mountain pard, but set at nought The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men 445 Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' the woods. What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield. That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin. Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone. But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 450 And noble grace that dashed brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe? So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, 455 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heavenly habitants Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 460 The unpolluted temple of the mind. COMUS 4a And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, Till all be made immortal. But when lust By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 465 Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies and imbrutes till she quite lose The divine property of her first being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp 470 Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres, Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave, As loath to leave the body that it loved. And linked itself by carnal sensualty To a degenerate and degraded state. 475 Second Brother. How charming is divine philosophy, Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute. And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets. Where no crude surfeit reigns! Elder Brother. List, list! I hear 480 Some far-off halloo break the silent air. Second Brother. Methought so too. What should it be ? Elder Brother. For certain Either some one like us night-foundered here, Or else some neighbor woodman, or, at worst, Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 485 Second Brother. Heaven keep my sister! Again, again, and near! Best draw, and stand upon our guard. Elder Brother. I '11 halloo. If he be friendly, he comes well; if not. Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us. 44 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Enter the Attendant Spirit, habited like a shepherd. That halloo I should know. What are you ? Speak ! 490 Come not too near; you fall on iron stakes else! Spirit. What voice is that? — my young Lord? — speak again. Second Brother. O brother, 't is my father's shepherd, sure. Elder Brother. Thyrsis — whose artful strains have oft delayed The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, 495 And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale? How camest thou here, good swain ? Hath any ram Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam. Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook ? How could'st thou find this dark sequestered nook ? 500 Spirit. O my loved master's heir, and his next joy, I came not here on such a trivial toy As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealth That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought 505 To this my errand, and the care it brought. But, O my virgin Lady, where is she? How chance she is not in your company? Elder Brother. To tell thee sadly, shepherd, without blame. Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 5 10 Spirit. Ay, me unhappy! then my fears are true. Elder Brother. What fears, good Thyrsis ? Prithee briefly shew. Spirit. I '11 tell ye; 't is not vain, or fabulous (Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance), COMUS 45 What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly Muse, 5i5 Storied of old in high immortal verse. Of dire chimeras, and enchanted isles. And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell. For such there be, but unbeHef is blind. Within the navel of this hideous wood, 620 Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells, Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries; And here to every thirsty wanderer By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 625 With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison The visage quite transforms of him that drinks And the inglorious likeness of a beast Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage Charactered in the face. This I have learnt 530 Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl Like stabled wolves or tigers at their prey. Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 535 In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. Yet have they many baits and guileful spells To inveigle and invite the unwary sense Of them that pass unwitting by the way. This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 540 Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb Of knot-grass dew-besprent and were in fold, I sat me down to watch upon a bank With ivy canopied and interwove With flaunting honeysuckle, and began, 545 Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy, 46 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS To meditate my rural minstrelsy, Till Fancy had her fill. But, ere a close, The wonted roar was up amidst the woods' And filled the air with barbarous dissonance; 550 At which I ceased, and listened them a while, Till an unusual stop of sudden silence Gave respite to the drowsy-flighted steeds That draw, the litter of close-curtained sleep. At last a soft and solemif-breathing sound 555 Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes And stole upon the air, that even Silence Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might Deny her nature, and be never more. Still to be so displaced. I was all ear, 560 And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of Death. But oh, ere long Too well did I perceive it was the voice Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister ! Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear, 565 And "O poor hapless nightingale," thought I, "How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare!" Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste, Through paths and turnings often trod by day. Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place 570 Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise (For so by certain signs I knew), had met Already, ere my best speed could prevent. The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey. Who gently asked if he had seen such two, 575 Supposing him some neighbor villager. Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed COMUS 47 Ye were the two she meant. With that I sprung Into swift flight, till I had found you here, But further know I not. Second Brother. O night and shades, 580 How are ye joined with hell in triple knot Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin, Alone and helpless! Is this the confidence You gave me, brother? Elder Brother. Yes, and keep it still. Lean on it safely. Not a period 585 Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats Of malice or of sorcery, or that power Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm, Virtue may be assailed but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force but not enthralled. 590 Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm Shall in the happy trial prove most glory. But evil on itself shall back recoil, And mix no more with goodness, when at last. Gathered like scum and settled to itself, 595 It shall be in eternal restless change Self -fed and self-consumed. If this fail. The pillared firmament is rottenness And earth's base built on stubble. But come, let's on! Against the opposing will and arm of Heaven 600 May never this just sword be lifted up, But for that damned magician, let him be girt With all the grisly legions that troop . Under the sooty flag of Acheron, Harpies and Hydras, or all the monstrous forms 605 'Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out, 48 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS And force him to return his purchase back, Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, Cursed as his life. Spirit. Alas! good venturous youth, I love thy courage yet and bold emprise, 6io But here thy sword can do thee little stead. Far other arms and other weapons must Be those that quell the might of hellish charms. He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints, And crumble all thy sinews. Elder Brother. Why prithee, shepherd, 6 15 How durst thou then thyself approach so near As to make this relation ? Spirit. Care and utmost shifts How to secure the Lady from surprisal Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad. Of small regard to see to, yet well skilled 620 In every virtuous plant and healing herb That spreads her verdant leaf to the morning ray. He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing. Which when I did, he on the tender grass Would sit and hearken e'en to ecstasy, 625 And in requital ope his leathern scrip And show me simples of a thousand names, Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. Amongst the rest a small unsightly root, But of divine effect, he culled me out. 630 The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it. But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil. Unknown and Hke esteemed, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon, 635 COMUS 49 And yet more med'cinal is it than that Moly That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave. He called it Hsemony, and gave it me, And bade me keep it as of sovran use 'Gainst all enchantments, mildew-blast, or damp, 640 Or ghastly furies' apparition. I pursed it up, but little reckoning made. Till now that this extremity compelled. But now I find it true; for by this means I knew the foul enchanter though disguised, 645 Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells. And yet came off. If you have this about you (As I will give you when we go), you may Boldly assault the necromancer's hall, Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 650 And brandished blade rush on him, break his glass, And shed the luscious liquor on the ground. But seize his wand. Though he and his curst crew Fierce sign of battle make and menace high, Or like the sons of Vulcan vomit smoke, 655 Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink. Elder Brother. Thyrsis, lead on apace, I'll follow thee And some good angel bear a shield before us. The scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner of de- liciousness; soft mitsic, tables spread with all dainties. CoMUS appears with his rabble, and the Lady set in an enchanted chair, to whom he offers his glass, which she puts by, and goes about to rise. Comus. Nay, Lady, sit; if I but wave this wand Youf nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 660 And you a statue, or as Daphne was, Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 50 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Lady. Fool, do not boast: Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind With all thy charms, although this corporal rind Thou hast enmanacled while Heaven sees good. 665 Comus. Why are you vexed, Lady ? Why do you frown ? Here dwell no frowns nor anger; from these gates Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures That Fancy can beget on youthful thoughts, When the fresh blood grows lively and returns 670 Brisk as the April buds in primrose season. And first behold this cordial julep here That flames and dances in his crystal bounds. With spirits of balm and fragrant sirups mixed. Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone 675 In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena Is of such power to stir up joy as this, To Hfe so friendly, or so cool to thirst. Why should you be so cruel to yourself And to those dainty limbs which Nature lent 680 For gentle usage and soft delicacy ? But you invert the covenants of her trust And harshly deal, like an ill borrower, With that which you received on other terms, Scorning the unexempt condition 685 By which all mortal frailty must subsist. Refreshment after toil, ease after pain, That have been tired all day without repast And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin, This will restore all soon. Lady. 'T will not, false traitor, 690 'T will not restore the truth and honesty That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies. COMUS 51 Was this the cottage and the safe abode Thou told'st me of ? What grim aspects are these, These ugly-headed monsters ? Mercy guard me ! 695 Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul deceiver ! Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence With visored falsehood and base forgery, And would'st thou seek again to trap me here With lickerish baits fit to ensnare a brute? 700 Were it a draught for Juno when she banquets, I would not taste thy treasonous offer. None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good is not delicious To a well-governed and wise appetite. 705 Comus. O foolishness of men that lend their ears To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur. And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub. Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence! Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth 7 10 With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks. Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable. But all to please and sate the curious taste? And set to work millions of spinning worms, 7 15 That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired silk, To deck her sons. And that no corner might Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins She hutched th' all-worshipped ore, and precious gems, To store her children with. If all the world "20 Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze. 52 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Th' All-giver would be unthanked, would be un- praised, Not half his riches known, and yet despised, And we should serve him as a grudging master, 725 As a penurious niggard of his wealth, And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons. Who would be quite surcharged with her own weight, And strangled with her waste fertility. The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked with plumes, 730 The herds would over-multitude their lords, The sea o'erfraught would swell, and the unsought diamonds Would so emblaze the forehead of the deep, And so bestud with stars, that they below Would grow inured to light, and come at last 735 To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. List, Lady, be not coy, and be not cozened With that same vaunted name Virginity. Beauty is nature's coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current, and the good thereof 740 Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, Unsavory in the enjoyment of itself. If you let slip time, like a neglected rose It withers on the stalk with languished head. Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown 745 In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities. Where most may wonder at the workmanship. It is for homely features to keep home; They had their name thence; coarse complexions, And cheeks of sorry grain, will serve to ply 750 The sampler, and to tease the huswife's wool. COMUS 53 What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn? There was another meaning in these gifts: Think what, and be advised; you are but young yet. 755 Lady. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler Would think to charm my judgment as mine eyes. Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. I hate when Vice can bolt her arguments, 760 And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride. Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance; she, good cateress, • Means her provision only to the good, 765 That live according to her sober laws. And holy dictate of spare Temperance, If every just man that now pines with want Had but a moderate and beseeming share Of that which lewdly-pampered luxury 770 Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, Nature's full blessings would be well dispensed In unsupetfluous even proportion, And she no whit encumbered with her store; And then the giver would be better thanked, 775 His praise due paid, for swinish gluttony Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, But with besotted base ingratitude Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go on, Or have I said enow ? To him that dares 780 Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words Against the sun-clad power of Chastity, Fain would I something say, yet to what end ? 54 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Thou hast not ear nor soul to apprehend The sublime notion and high mystery 785 That must be uttered to unfold the sage And serious doctrine of Virginity; And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know More happiness than this thy present lot. Enjoy your dear wit and gay rhetoric 790 That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence; Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced. Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits To such a flame of sacred vehemence, 795 That dumb things would be moved to sympa- thize, And the brute earth would lend her nerves and shake, Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. Comus. She fables not. I feel that I do fear 800 Her words set off by some superior power; And, though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering dew Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of Jove Speaks thunder and the chains of Erebus To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble, 805 And try her yet more strongly. Come, no more! This is mere moral babble, and direct Against the canon laws of our foundation. I must not suffer this, yet 't is but the lees And settlings of a melancholy blood. 8 10 But this will cure all straight; one sip of this COMUS 55 Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste. The Brothers rush in with swords drawn, wrest his glass out of his hand, and break it against the ground; his rout make sign of resistance, but are all driven in. The Attendant Spirit comes in. Spirit. What, have you let the false enchanter 'scape? O ye mistook, ye should have snatched his wand, 8i5 And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed, And backward mutters of dissevering power, We cannot free the Lady that sits here In stony fetters fixed and motionless. Yet stay, be not disturbed; now I bethink me, 820 Some other means I have which may be used. Which once of Meliboeus old I learnt, The soothest shepherd that e'er piped on plains. There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream. 825 Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure. Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father Brute. She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged stepdame Guendolen, 830 Commended her fair innocence to the flood, That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. The water-nymphs, that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in. Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, 835 Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, And gave her to his daughters to embathe In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel. 5Q MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS And through the porch and inlet of each sense Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she revived, 840 And underwent a quick immortal change, Made goddess of the river. Still she retains Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve Visits the herds along the twihght meadows. Helping all urchin blasts and ill luck signs 845 That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make. Which she with precious vialed hquors heals^ For which the shepherds at their festivals Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream 850 Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. And, as the old swain said, she can unlock The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell, If she be right invoked in warbled song; For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift 855 To aid a virgin, such as was herself, In hard besetting need. This will I try. And add the power of some adjuring verse. Song Sabrina fair, Listen, where thou art sitting 860 Under the glassy, cool, translucejit wave. In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-droppiiig hair. Listen for dear honoris sake. Goddess of the silver lake, 865 Listen and save ! Listen and appear to us In name of great Oceanus. COMUS 57 By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace And Tethys' grave majestic pace, 870 By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look And the Carpathian wizard's hook, By scaly Triton's w^inding shell And old soothsaying Glaucus' spejl. By Leucothea's lovely hands 875 And her son that rules the strands, By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet And the songs of Sirens sweet, By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, And fair Ligea's golden comb, sso Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks Sleeking her soft alluring locks, By all the nymphs that nightly dance Upon thy streams with wily glance, Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 885 From thy coral-paven bed. And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save ! Sabrina rises, attended by Water-nymphs, and sings. By the rushy-fringed hank, 890 Where grows the willow and the osier dank, My sliding chariot stays, Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen Of Turkis blue, and emerald green. That in the channel strays; 895 Whilst from off the waters fleet. Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 58 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS That bends not as I tread; Gentle swain, at thy request 900 I am here! Spirit. Goddess dear, We implore thy powerful hand To undo the charmed band Of true virgin here distressed 905 Through the force and through the wile Of unblest enchanter vile. Sabrina. Shepherd, 't is my oflBce best To help ensnared chastity: Brightest Lady, look on me; 910 Thus I sprinkle on thy breast Drops that from my fountain pure I have kept of precious cure. Thrice upon thy fingers' tip, Thrice upon thy rubied lip, 916 Next, this marble venomed seat. Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, I touch with chaste palms moist and cold. Now the spell hath lost his hold; And I must haste, ere morning hour, 920 To wait in Amphitrite's bower. Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat. Spirit. Virgin, daughter of Locrine, Sprung of old Anchises' hne. May thy brimmed waves for this Their full tribute never miss 925 From a thousand petty rills. That tumble down the snowy hills. Summer drouth or singed air COMUS 59 Never scorch thy tresses fair, Nor wet October's torrent flood 930 Thy molten crystal fill with mud. May thy billows roll ashore The beryl, and the golden ore. May thy lofty head be crowned With many a tower and terrace round, 935 And here and there thy banks upon With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. Come, Lady, while Heaven lends us grace, Let us fly this cursed place. Lest the sorcerer us entice 940 With some other new device. Not a waste or needless sound Till we come to hoUer ground. I shall be your faithful guide Through this gloomy covert wide; 945 And not many furlongs thence Is your Father's residence. Where this night are met in state Many a friend to gratulate His wished presence and, beside, 950 All the swains that there abide With jigs, and rural dance resort. We shall catch them at their sport, And our sudden coming there Will double all their mirth and cheer: 955 Come, let us haste; the stars grow high, But Night sits monarch yet in the mid sky. The scene changes, presenting Ludlow town and the President's castle; then come in Country Dancers, after them the Attend- ant Spirit with the Two Brothers and the Lady, 60 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Song Spirit. Back, shepherds, back! enough you play Till next sunshine holiday. Here be, without duck or nod, 960 Other ti'ippings to be trod Of lighter toes, and such court guise As Mercury did first devise With the mincing Dryades, On the lawns and on the leas. 965 This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother. Noble Lord, and Lady bright, I have brought ye new delight. Here behold so goodly grown Three fair branches of your own. Heaven hath timely tried their youth, 970 Their faith, their patience, and their tiixth. And sent them here through hard essays With a crown of deathless praise. To triumph in victorious dance O'er sensual folly, and intemperance. 975 The dances ended, the Spirit epilogizes. Spirit. To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid air 980 All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus and his daughters three That sing about the .golden tree: Along the crisped shades and bowers COMUS • 61 Revels the spruce and jocund Spring; 985 The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours Thither all their bounties bring; There eternal Summer dwells, And west winds with musky wing About the cedarn alleys fling 990 Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, 995 And drenches with Elysian dew (List, mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses. Where young Adonis oft reposes. Waxing well of his deep wound looo In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits the Assyrian queen. But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced, lOOS After her wand' ring labors long, Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, lOio Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly done: I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end. Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend, ioi5 And from thence can soar as soon MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS To the corners of the moon. Mortals that would follow me, Love Virtue — she alone is free. She can teach ye how to chmb 1020 Higher than the sphery chime. Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heaven itself would stoop to her. VII LYCIDAS In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend unfortunately drowned in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And, by occasion, foretells the ruin,, of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. Compels me to disturb your season due. For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas ? He knew lo Himself to sing, and build the lofty rime. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well, 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. .VI Hence with denial vain and coy excuse; ' So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, 20 63 ^ 64 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS And, as he passes, turn. And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self -same hill; Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn. Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 30 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 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, 35 And old Damoetas 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, 40 And all their echoes, mourn. The wiflows, 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, 45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear. When first the white-thorn blows, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, LYCIDAS 65 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, ^ Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 55 Ay me! I fondly dream i^j^ V 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, i - Whom universal Nature did lament, 60 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 uncessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 65 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 Nesera's hair? ^ Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise :0 p| 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind) iN^ \ 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, 75 And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembhng ears, ''Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor Hes, so But Uves 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." 66 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS ^ O fountain Arethuse, and thou, honored flood, 85 ;i^ Smooth-sUding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, "^That strain I heard was of a higher mood, f But now my oat proceeds, 5 And Hstens to the herald of the sea, That came in ^eptune's plea. 90 e asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, ?p-^What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? \ And questioned every gust of rugged wings ^ That blows from off each beaked promontory. "T They knew not of his story, 95 c And sage Hippotades their answer brings, ^ That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed. 3 The air was calm, and on the level brine ^ Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. >J It was that fatal and perfidious bark, lOO '^ 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 rnantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 < Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. V "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, **my dearest pledge?" i^ Last came, and last did go, "Y^i^The Pilot of the Galilean lake; V*^ Two massy keys he bore of metals twain i lO (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! ii5 Of other care they little reckoning make. I LYCIDAS 67 Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. BHnd mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 120 That to the faithful herdman'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, 125 But, swoln 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 engine at the door 130 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 flowerets of a thousand hues. 135 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 enamelled eyes. That on the green turf suck the honied showers, ..:, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, .^ 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 68 MILTON'S SHORTER POEMS Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 150 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so, to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, 155 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, 16O Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth, And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. v V^ Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, vSunk though he be beneath the watery floor. ^ So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, ^ And yet anon repairs his drooping head, Ni And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore j^ 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. v?