Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 50

That Orpheus self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear Such streins as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regain'd Eurydice.

These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

John Milton. 1608-1674

311. Il Penseroso

HENCE vain deluding joyes, The brood of folly without father bred, How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes; Dwell in som 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.

But hail thou G.o.ddes, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly visage is too bright To hit the Sense of human sight; And therfore to our weaker view, Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.

Black, but such as in esteem, Prince Memnons sister might beseem, Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that strove To set her beauties praise above The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.

Yet thou art higher far descended, Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturns raign, Such mixture was not held a stain) Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.

Com pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestick train, And sable stole of Cipres Lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

Com, but keep thy wonted state, With eev'n step, and musing gate, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There held in holy pa.s.sion still, Forget thy self to Marble, till With a sad Leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with G.o.ds doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring, Ay round about Joves Altar sing.

And adde to these retired Leasure, 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 daign a Song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke, Gently o're th'accustom'd Oke; Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musicall, most melancholy!

Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among, I woo to hear thy eeven-Song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven Green.

To behold the wandring Moon, Riding neer her highest noon, Like one that had bin led astray Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way; And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a Plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off Curfeu sound, Over som wide-water'd sh.o.a.r, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the Ayr will not permit, Som still removed place will fit, Where glowing Embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the Cricket on the hearth, Or the Belmans drousie charm, To bless the dores from nightly harm: Or let my Lamp at midnight hour, Be seen in som high lonely Towr, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear 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 Daemons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With Planet, or with Element.

Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy In Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by, Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line, Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or what (though rare) of later age, Enn.o.bled hath the Buskind stage.

But, 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 h.e.l.l 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 own'd the vertuous Ring and Gla.s.s, And of the wondrous Hors of Bra.s.s, On which the Tartar King did ride; And if ought els, great Bards beside, In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of Turneys and of Trophies hung; Of Forests, and inchantments drear, Where more is meant then meets the ear.

Thus night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appeer, Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont, With the Attick Boy to hunt, But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud, While rocking Winds are Piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the russling Leaves, With minute drops from off the Eaves.

And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me G.o.ddes bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, Of Pine, or monumental Oake, Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

There in close covert by som Brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from Day's garish eie, While the Bee with Honied thie, That at her flowry work doth sing, And the Waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let som strange mysterious dream, Wave at his Wings in Airy stream, Of lively portrature display'd, Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet musick breath Above, about, or underneath, Sent by som spirit to mortals good, Or th'unseen Genius of the Wood.

But let my due feet never fail, To walk the studious Cloysters pale, And love the high embowed Roof, With antick Pillars ma.s.sy proof, And storied Windows richly dight, Casting a dimm religious light.

There let the pealing Organ blow, To the full voic'd Quire below, In Service high, and Anthems cleer, As may with sweetnes, through mine ear, Dissolve me into extasies, And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peacefull hermitage, The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every Star that Heav'n doth shew, And every Herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To somthing like Prophetic strain.

These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to live.

John Milton. 1608-1674

312. From 'Arcades'

O'RE the smooth enameld green Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing, And touch the warbled string.

Under the shady roof Of branching Elm Star-proof, Follow me, I will bring you where she sits Clad in splendor as befits Her deity.

Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen.

John Milton. 1608-1674

313. From 'Comus'

i

THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, And the gilded Car of Day, His glowing Axle doth allay In the steep Atlantick stream, And the slope Sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky Pole, Pacing toward the other gole Of his Chamber in the East.

Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, Midnight shout, and revelry, Tipsie dance, and Jollity.

Braid your Locks with rosie Twine Dropping odours, dropping Wine.

Rigor now is gon to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head, Strict Age, and sowre Severity, With their grave Saws in slumber ly.

We that are of purer fire Imitate the Starry Quire, Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, Lead in swift round the Months and Years.

The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice 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 deckt with Daisies trim, Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: What hath night to do with sleep?

Night hath better sweets to prove, Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love....

Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastick round.

John Milton. 1608-1674

314. From' Comus'

ii. Echo

SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen Within thy airy sh.e.l.l By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet imbroider'd vale Where the love-lorn Nightingale Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair That likest thy Narcissus are?

O if thou have Hid them in som flowry Cave, Tell me but where Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!

So maist thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies!

John Milton. 1608-1674

315. From' Comus'

iii. Sabrina

The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair Listen where thou art sitting Under the gla.s.sie, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of Lillies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, Listen for dear honour's sake, G.o.ddess of the silver lake, Listen and save!

Listen and appear to us, In name of great Ocea.n.u.s, By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, And Tethys grave majestick pace, By h.o.a.ry Nereus wrincled look, And the Carpathian wisards hook, By scaly Tritons winding sh.e.l.l, And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, By Leucothea's lovely hands, And her son that rules the strands, By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet, And the Songs of Sirens sweet, By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, And fair Ligea's golden comb, Wherwith 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 rosie head From thy coral-pav'n bed, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have.

Listen and save!

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, My sliding Chariot stayes, Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green That in the channell strayes, Whilst from off the waters fleet Thus I set my printless feet O're the Cowslips Velvet head, That bends not as I tread, Gentle swain at thy request I am here.

John Milton. 1608-1674

316. From 'Comus'

iv

The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that ly Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid ayr All amidst the Gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree: Along the crisped shades and bowres Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, Thither all their bounties bring, That there eternal Summer dwels, And West winds, with musky wing About the cedar'n alleys fling Nard, and Ca.s.sia's balmy smels.

Iris there with humid bow, Waters the odorous banks that blow Flowers of more mingled hew Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, 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 In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits th' a.s.syrian Queen; But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't After her wandring labours long, Till free consent the G.o.ds among Make her his eternal Bride, And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be born, Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.

But now my task is smoothly don, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earths end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the Moon.

Mortals that would follow me, Love vertue, she alone is free.

She can teach ye how to clime Higher then the Spheary chime; Or if Vertue feeble were, Heav'n it self would stoop to her.

John Milton. 1608-1674

317. Lycidas A Lament for a friend drowned in his pa.s.sage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

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 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear.