<> •«.•' .** ,._ V * ,0'' ^ *^. %/ ■^ol ^^ -^ ^VJOi* ^^S- ^. - ♦ av ♦, * AV -^^ «. L'ALLEGRO 6^ IL PENSEROSO JOHN MILTON THE BLUE SKY PRESS CHICAGO ThfUswarv Of CONGHEC5S, I .-«u C(JP.-^' RtOhlVED ()■■ /icisCX-VXo. No. COPY 3. ^ Copyright^ ig02 by Langworthy & Stevens L'Allegr Of Cerberus and blackest Mid- night born if In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell. 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. 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. To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 15 'Srot ^'®«'«3'» t^tpfrnp ^ Or whether (as some sager sing) ^ I^WegTQ ^j^^ fj.^jj^ ^j^^ ^j^^^ breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying, 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. HASTE thee. Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, 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 ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go. On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; And, if I give thee honour due. Mirth, admit me of thy crew, i6 To live with her, and live with thee, ^^(^iitCtfCO In unreproved pleasures free ; 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. And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine ; While the cock, with lively din. Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 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. Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking, not unseen. By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green. Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state. 17 s ^^G^lffcCttO 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, And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. TRAIGHT mine eye hath caught new pleasures. Whilst the landskip round it measures : Russet lawns, and fallows grey. Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees. Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. XJT ARD by a cottage chimney •*• •*" smokes From betwixt two aged oaks. i8 Where Corydon and Thyrsis met ^^ Ql^CCTtO Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses ; And then in haste her bower she leaves. With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. O OMETIMES, 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 Dancing in the chequered 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. 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 lantern led, 19 ^^QXdiCttO Tells how the drudging goblin sweat ^ 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-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down, the lubber fiend. 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. By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. OWERED cities please us then. And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold. In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold. With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize T 20 Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear 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. 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. 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 With wanton heed and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; ^%m^o 21 B'@%to That Orpheus' self may heave his head 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. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. Penserosoi ENCE, vain de- ^ fpett luding Joys, tf^fOtfO The brood of ^^^^^^ Folly without father bred ! How little you bested. Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! Dwell in some idle brain. And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun- beams. Or likest hovering dreams. The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. TD UT, hail ! thou Goddess sage and ^^ holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. 29 3e$enj And therefore to our weaker view Overlaid with black, staid Wisdom's eero0o 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 The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 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. Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. OME, pensive Nun, devout and pure. Sober, steadfast, and demure. All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, 30 c And sable stole of cypress lawn ^f Cbcit? Over thy decent shoulders drawn. ^^4*^^^ 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 : 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, 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 ; 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, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, 31 ^p rh^n< ^^ ^^^ sweetest saddest plight, ^ Vr ^ Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 0CtO0O While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak. J Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song ; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 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. And oft, as if her head she bowed. Stooping through a fleecy cloud. /^ FT, on a plat of rising ground, ^^ I hear the far-ofl^ curfew sound. Over some wide-watered shore. Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 32 Or, if the air will not permit, Hp (f\^^ Some still removed place will fit, J VT Where glowing embers through the tSttOBO room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom. 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. ^^R let my lamp, at midnight hour, ^^ Be seen in some high lonely tower. Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold 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 With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 33 0ero0o B 10 Cbctt/ Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, ^ Or the tale of Troy divine. Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. UT, O sad Virgin ! that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower; Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 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. 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 ; And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung. Of turneys, and of trophies hung. 34 Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 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 kerchieft in a comely cloud. While rocking winds are piping loud. Or ushered with a shower still. When the gust hath blown his fill. Ending on the rustling leaves. With minute-drops from off the eaves. 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. Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 3S 0ero0o jf CpCtt J There, in close covert, by some brook, S^tQSO Where no profaner eye may look. Hide me from day's garish eye. While the bee with honeyed thigh. That at her flowery work doth sing. And the waters murmuring. With such consort as they keep. Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed. Softly on my eyelids laid ; And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath. Sent by some Spirit to mortals good. Or the unseen Genius of the wood. UT let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale. And love the high embowed roof. With antique pillars massy-proof. And storied windows richly dight. Casting a dim religious light. 3' B There let the pealing organ blow, ^P fft^^ To the full-voiced quire below, ^ ^» In service high and anthems clear, o%Tsj^O As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies. 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 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 ; And I with thee will choose to live. OUNG, calm and @ Qfto^e deep was the spirit that speaks immor- tally in these two moods. For they are not mere masks of the shifting hours, — not landscapes, nor descriptions : they are moods of the poet, wrought out from within, rather than impressions superficially set forth. They have the patient control that was in all his thought, but the organ voice had not yet acquired its full note ; after that mighty tone was his, these things became too slight to utter. To him in his final sublimity, they were trifles: yet they live. Calm, they feel no chill of austerity ; deep in beauty, they are well-nigh passionless. John Milton the father, scrivener and musician, had acquired a compet- ency before his eldest son entered Cambridge; and had retired to the 39 Qjl Oflo^^ house at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, where he lived comfortably but with- out ostentation. The neighborhood was one of pastoral charm ; the land- scape quietly rich, and subject to all the glories of the changing year. It was not the exacfl countryside portrayed in the poems, but held many points in common with it. Hither came John Milton the son, aged twenty-four, fresh from his col- legiate studies, and eager in the ac- quirement of learning. A slender young man, albeit well-knit and sound of body ; soberly dressed ; his light hair falling over his shoulders in the fashion of the Cavaliers ; — the very figure we conjure up for a deserving student in an old romance. But men who saw him remembered most his face, for that was beautiful: delicate and clear in colour, noble in feature, and always grave. His eyes already began to feel their own mortality, but in them death- less dreams were kindling. ' 40 The large quiet in his nature that Qj[ (Yt(s(^ had given to Milton a certain aloof- ^ ^ ness among his companions at Cam- bridge made the time at Horton, the years during which the poems were written, a period of hopeful delight. Sometimes, we know, he chafed at his own slowness in ripening. Yet he knew that he was building in himself an in- strument of lofty song. On his return from the University, after his final de- cision to forego a career in the Church, he set about to perfed: his education in his own way. There was practically no opposition to his desires. He read wide- ly and thoroughly, surveyed his own equipment without haste and without prejudice, and enriched himself in con- templation. The steady purpose of his life was upon him, and he waited for the power to come. Meanwhile his youth was seasoning into manhood. The cold resonance of 41 (2\ (TtotC ^he Hymn to the Nativity was gone. He had begun to find the beauty in the days, and in the words he loved. The Greeks and Romans in whose world he lived so much were full of spring- time thoughts and twilight imagina- tions. His poet's heart was beating peacefully. Came two moods, a turn toward fantasy, and the memory of some old songs : he cast those moods in numbers that the race *'will not will- ingly let die.'' Here endeth the book, U ALLEGRO and IL PENSEROSO, as written by John Milton. For this edition the Note was written by Thomas Wood Stevens ; two illustra- tions were drawn by Harry Everett Townsend ; and the whole made into this book by Langworthy Gf Stevens at the Blue Sky Press, 4J32 Kenwood Avenue, Chicago. One hundred copies have been printed and the type distributed, during the month of September, MCMII; this being number ^ ^ \ W23 ^ -bV* 4» .•^^^^-•- Vj. AT^ ^UMMK^* '^^'&' 5.^'^ov r-vy ^o ♦ «0 • .♦' >*^^^. •^ '**•** -i^ '^ ♦^^j** /V Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. ^ ^ "C^. fvv , »• • - *H^ ^^ o"*'* 'bv ,^0, \