Lycidas

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

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.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,

Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,

So may som gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,

And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.

For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd

Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,

We drove a field, and both together heard

What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning bright

Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel.

Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,

From the glad sound would not be absent long,

And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song,

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,

Now thou art gon, and never must return!

Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,

With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,

And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.

As killing as the Canker to the Rose,

Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,

Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,

When first the White thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep

Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:

Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye bin there-for what could that have don?

What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,

The Muse her self, for her inchanting son

Whom Universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,

His goary 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 Shepherds trade,

And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,

Were it not better don as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of Noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;

But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,

And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,

Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,

But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,

And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my Oate proceeds,

And listens to the Herald of the Sea

That came in Neptune's plea,

He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,

What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?

And question'd every gust of rugged wings

That blows from off each beaked Promontory,

They knew not of his story,

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,

The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.

It was that fatall and perfidious Bark

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,

His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.

Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?

Last came, and last did go,

The Pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,

(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)

He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,

How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,

Anow of such as for their bellies sake,

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?

Of other care they little reck'ning make,

Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold

A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least

That to the faithfull Herdmans 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,

But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:

Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,

But that two-handed engine at the door,

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 Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.

Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,

That on the green terf suck the honied showres,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.

Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.

The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,

The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,

The glowing Violet.

The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.

With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:

Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

To strew the Laureat Herse 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 ere thy bones are hurld,

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 deny'd,

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

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 haples youth.

Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,

So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves

Where other groves, and other streams along,

With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,

And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,

In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the Saints above,

In solemn troops, and sweet Societies

That sing, and singing in their glory move,

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;

Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th' Okes and rills,

While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,

He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,

With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:

And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,

And now was dropt into the Western bay;

At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:

To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

John Milton

Upon the Circumcision

YE flaming Powers, and wingèd Warriours bright,

That erst with Musick, and triumphant song

First heard by happy watchful Shepherds ear,

So sweetly sung your Joy the Clouds along

Through the soft silence of the list'ning night;

Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear

Your fiery essence can distill no tear,

Burn in your sighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep sorrow,

He who with all Heav'ns heraldry whileare

Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;

Alas, how soon our sin

Sore doth begin

His Infancy to sease!

O more exceeding love or law more just?

Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!

For we by rightfull doom remediles

Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above

High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust

Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakednes;

And that great Cov'nant which we still transgress

Intirely satisfi'd,

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,

And seals obedience first with wounding smart

This day, but O ere long

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more neer his heart.

John Milton

L'Allegro

HENCE loathed Melancholy

Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,

In Stygian Cave forlorn.

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, 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-brow'd Rocks,

As ragged as thy Locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But com thou Goddess fair and free,

In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,

And by men, heart-easing Mirth,

Whom lovely Venus at a birth

With two sister Graces more

To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;

Or whether (as som Sager sing)

The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,

Zephir with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a Maying,

There on Beds of Violets blew,

And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,

Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,

So bucksom, blith, and debonair.

Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,

Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrincled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Com, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastick 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 crue

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free;

To hear the Lark begin his flight,

And singing startle the dull night,

From his watch-towre in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to com in spight 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 dore,

Stoutly struts his Dames before,

Oft list'ning how the Hounds and Horn

Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,

From the side of som Hoar Hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill.

Som time walking not unseen

By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,

Right against the Eastern gate,

Where the great Sun begins his state,

Roab'd in flames, and Amber light,

The clouds in thousand Liveries dight,

While the Plowman neer at hand,

Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,

And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,

And the Mower whets his sithe,

And every Shepherd tells his tale

Under the Hawthorn in the dale.

Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures

Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,

Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,

Where the nibling flocks do stray,

Mountains on whose barren brest

The labouring clouds do often rest:

Meadows trim with Daisies pide,

Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.

Towers, and Battlements its sees

Boosom'd high in tufted Trees,

Wher perhaps som beauty lies,

The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,

From betwixt two ages Okes,

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,

Are at their savory dinner set

Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,

With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;

Or if the earlier season lead

To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead,

Some times with secure delight

The up-land Hamlets will invite,

When the merry Bells ring round,

And the jocond rebecks sound

To many a youth, and many a maid,

Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;

And young and old com forth to play

On a Sunshine Holyday,

Till the live-long day-light fail,

Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,

With stories told of many a feat,

How Faery Mab the junkets eat,

She was pincht, and pull'd she sed,

And by the Friars Lanthorn led

Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,

To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,

When in one night, ere glimps of morn,

His shadowy Flale hath thresh'd the Corn,

That ten day-labourers could not end,

Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend.

And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,

Basks at the fire his hairy strength;

And Crop-full out of dores he flings,

Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings,

Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,

By whispering Winds soon lull'd asleep.

Towred Cites please us then,

And the busie humm of men,

Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,

In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,

With store of Ladies, whose bright eies

Rain influence, and judge the prise,

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,

On Summer eeves by haunted stream.

Then to the well-trod stage anon,

If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,

Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,

Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,

And ever against eating Cares,

Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,

Married to immortal verse

Such as the meeting soul may pierce

In notes, with many a winding bout

Of lincked sweetness long drawn out,

With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,

The melting voice through mazes running;

Untwisting all the chains that ty

The hidden soul of harmony.

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

Captain or Colonel...

CAPTAIN or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease,

If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms,

He can requite thee, for he knows the charms

That call Fame on such gentle acts as these,

And he can spread thy Name o're Lands and Seas,

What ever clime the Suns bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses Bowre,

The great Emathian Conquerorº bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when Temple and Towre

Went to the ground: And the repeated air

Of sad Electra's Poetº had the power

To save th' Athenian Walls from ruine bare.

John Milton

Notes:

Emathian Conquerer: Alexander the Great, who spared the house of Pindar when he sacked Thebes.

Electra's poet: Euripides. It is said that Lysander spared Athens from destruction when he was moved by the beauty of the chorus in Electra.

Daughter to that good Earl

[Written in 1642 and addressed to Lady Margaret Ley, a daughter of the Earl of Marlborough who was Lord High Treasurer and Lord President to James I. The broken Parliament is that of 1629 which began the personal rule. --Bob Blair]

Daughter to that good Earl, once President

Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,

Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee.

And left them both, more in himself content,

Till the sad breaking of that Parlament

Broke him, as that dishonest victory

At Chæronea, fatal to liberty

Kill'd with report that Old man eloquent,

Though later born, then to have known the dayes

Wherin your Father flourisht, yet by you,

Madam, me thinks I see him living yet;

So well your words his noble vertues praise,

That all both judge you to relate them true,

And to possess them, Honour'd Margaret.

John Milton



To Oliver Cromwell

CROMWELL our Chief of Men, that through a Croud,

Not of War only, but distractions rude;

Guided by Faith, and Matchless Fortitude:

To Peace and Truth, thy Glorious way hast Plough'd,

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

Has rear'd God's Trophies, and his Work pursu'd,

While Darwent Streams with Blood of Scots imbru'd;

And Dunbarfield resound thy Praises loud,

And Worcester's Laureat Wreath; yet much remains

To Conquer still; Peace hath her Victories

No less than those of War; new Foes arise

Threatening to bind our Souls in secular Chains,

Help us to save Free Conscience from the paw

Of Hireling Wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

John Milton

On the late Massecher in Piemont

AVENGE O Lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,

Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old

When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,

Forget not: in thy book record their groanes,

Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold

Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd

Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans

The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes so

O're all th' Italian fields where still doth sway

The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow

A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way

Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

John Milton



To Sir Henry Vane

VANE, Young in years, but in Sage Councels old,

Then whom a better Senator, ne're held

The Helm of Rome, when Gowns, not Arms, repell'd

The fierce Epirote, and the African bold,

Whether to settle Peace, or to unfold

The Drift of hollow States, hard to be Spell'd;

Then to advise how War may best be upheld,

Mann'd by her Two main Nerves, Iron and Gold,

In all her Equipage: Besides, to know

Both Spiritual and Civil, what each means,

What serves each, thou hast learn'd, which few have done.

The bounds of either Sword to thee we owe;

Therefore on thy Right hand Religion leans,

And reckons thee in chief her Eldest Son.

John Milton



To My Lord Fairfax

FAIRFAX, whose Name in Arms through Europe rings,

And fills all Mouths with Envy or with Praise,

And all her Jealous Monarchs with Amaze.

And Rumours loud which daunt remotest Kings,

Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings

Victory home, while new Rebellions raise

Their Hydra-heads, and the false North displays

Her broken League to Imp her Serpent Wings:

O yet! a Nobler task awaits thy Hand,

For what can War, but Acts of War still breed

Till injur'd Truth from Violence be freed;

And publick Faith be rescu'd from the Brand

Of publick Fraud; in vain doth Valour bleed,

While Avarice and Rapine shares the Land.

John Milton

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