Minor Poems by Milton Part 3

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 10 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.

L'ALLEGRO.

Hence, loathed 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. 10 But come, thou G.o.ddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, 15 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.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25 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; 30 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 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-briar or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the c.o.c.k, 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 h.o.a.r hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow 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 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 hayc.o.c.k 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 chequered shade, And young and old come forth to play On a suns.h.i.+ne holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 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, 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 lies him down, the lubber fiend, 110 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 c.o.c.k his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 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 With store 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.

IL PENSEROSO.

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 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, 5 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. 10 But, hail! thou G.o.ddess 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; 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, Whilst 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 pa.s.sion 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 Spare Fast, that oft with G.o.ds 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; 50 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, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 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 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 sh.o.r.e, 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar; 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, 80 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.w.a.tch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 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 In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 Or what (though rare) of later age Enn.o.bled hath the buskined stage.

But, O sad Virgin! that thy power Might raise Musaeus 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 h.e.l.l grant what love did seek; Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, 110 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and gla.s.s, And of the wondrous horse of bra.s.s On which the Tartar king did ride; 115 And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 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, 125 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. 130 And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, G.o.ddess, 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 honeyed 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 lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid; 150 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.

But let my due feet never fail 155 To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars ma.s.sy-proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. 160 There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire 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 live.

ARCADES.

_Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield by some n.o.ble Persons of her Family; who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song:--_

I. _Song._

Look, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!

What sudden blaze of majesty Is that which we from hence descry, Too divine to be mistook?

This, this is she 5 To whom our vows and wishes bend: Here our solemn search hath end.

Fame, that her high worth to raise Seemed erst so lavish and profuse, We may justly now accuse 10 Of detraction from her praise: Less than half we find expressed; Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant state she spreads, In circle round her s.h.i.+ning throne 15 Shooting her beams like silver threads: This, this is she alone, Sitting like a G.o.ddess bright In the centre of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be, 20 Or the towered Cybele, Mother of a hundred G.o.ds?

Juno dares not give her odds: Who had thought this clime had held A deity so unparalleled? 25

As they come forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and, turning toward them, speaks.

_Gen._ Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in this disguise, I see bright honor sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice, 30 Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and good.

I know this quest of yours and free intent Was all in honor and devotion meant 35 To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity, And lead ye where ye may more near behold 40 What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold; Which I full oft, amidst those shades alone, Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon.

For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 45 To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove With ringlets quaint and wanton windings wove; And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds and blasting vapors chill; And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, 50 And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue, Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites, Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.

When evening gray doth rise, I fetch my round Over the mount, and all this hallowed ground; 55 And early, ere the odorous breath of morn Awakes the slumbering leaves, or ta.s.selled horn Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, Number my ranks, and visit every sprout With puissant words and murmurs made to bless. 60 But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Sirens' harmony, That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, 65 And turn the adamantine spindle round On which the fate of G.o.ds and men is wound.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie, To lull the daughters of Necessity, And keep unsteady Nature to her law, 70 And the low world in measured motion draw After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Of human mould with gross unpurged ear.

And yet such music worthiest were to blaze The peerless height of her immortal praise 75 Whose l.u.s.tre leads us, and for her most fit, If my inferior hand or voice could hit Inimitable sounds. Yet, as we go, Whate'er the skill of lesser G.o.ds can show I will a.s.say, her worth to celebrate, 80 And so attend ye toward her glittering state; Where ye may all, that are of n.o.ble stem, Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

II. _Song._

O'er the smooth enamelled green, Where no print of step hath been, 85 Follow me, as I sing And touch the warbled string: Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof Follow me. 90 I will bring you where she sits, Clad in splendor as befits Her deity.

Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen. 95

III. _Song._

Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more By sandy Ladon's lilied banks; On old Lycaeus, or Cyllene h.o.a.r, Trip no more in twilight ranks; Though Erymanth your loss deplore, 100 A better soil shall give ye thanks.

From the stony Maenalus Bring your flocks, and live with us; Here ye shall have greater grace, To serve the Lady of this place. 105 Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were, Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen.