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BOOK THE FOUR TH.
SENTIMENTAL, LYRICAL, AND LUDICROUS.
ODES, SONNETS, CLASSICAL SONGS, ANCIENT AND MODERN BALLADS, COMIC TALES, EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, VARIOUS AMUSING LITTLE POEMS, PROLOGUES, AND EPILOGUES.
of 1. L'ALLEGRO.
Milton. Sport, that wrinkled care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides :
Come, and trip it as you go,
And in thy right hand lead with thee 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; unholy;
And, if I give thee honor due, Find out some uncouth cell,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous To live with her and live with thee, wings,
In unreprored pleasures free; And the night-raven sings ;
To hear the lark begin his flight, There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd And singing, startle the dull night, As ragged as thy locks,
[rocks, From his watch-tow'r in the skies, In dark Ciminerian desert ever dwell.
Till the dapple dawn doth rise; But come, thou goddess, fair and free, Then to come, in spite of sorrow, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And at my window bid good-morrow, And by men heart-easing Mirth,
Through the sweet-brier or the vine, Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
Or the twisted eglantine : With two sister Graces more,
While the cock with lively din To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, Or whether (as some sages sing)
And to the stack, or the barn-door, The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Stoutly struts his dames before ; Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn As he met her once a-Maying,
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, There on beds of violets blue,
From the side of some hoar hill, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Filld her with thee, a daughter fair,
Some time walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Where the great sun begins his state,
While the ploughman near at hand And love to live in dimple sleek ;
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singing blithe,
Then to the well-trod stage anon, And the mower whets his sithe,
If Jonson's learned sock be on, And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, Mountains, on whose barren breast
In notes with many a winding bout The lab'ring clouds do often rest;
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
The melting voice through mazes running; Tow'rs and battlements it sees,
Untwisting all the chains that tie Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
The hidden soul of harmony; Where perhaps some beauty lies,
That Orpheus' self may heave his head The Cynosure of neighb’ring eyes.
From golden slumber on a bed Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear From betwixt two aged oaks,
Such strains as would have won the ear Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Of Pluto, to have quite set free Are at their savory dinner set
His half-regain'd Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
$2. IL PENSEROSO. MILFON. To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight
Hence, vain deluding joys, The upland hamlets will invite,
The brood of folly, without father bred, When the merry bells ring round,
How little you bestead, And the jocund rebecks sound
Ot fill the fixed mind with all your toys! To many a youth and many a maid,
Dwell in some idle brain, Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, young. and old come forth to play As thick and numberless On a sunshine holiday.
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Till the live-long day-light fail;
Or likest hovering dreams, Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. With stories iold of many a feat,
But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy! How fairy Mab the junkets eat ;
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! She was pinch'd and pull’d, she said,
Whose saintly visage is too bright And he by friar's lanthorn led';
To hit the sense of human sight; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,
And therefore to our weaker view To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, Black, but such as in esteem His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn, Prince Memnon's sister might beseem : That ten day lab'rers could not end;
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
To set her beauty's praise above And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended : Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
Yet thou art higher far descended ; And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore Ere the first cock his matin rings.
To solitary Saturn bore; Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign By whisp'ring winds soon lulld asleep. Such mixture was not held a stain.) Tow'red cities please us then,
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure, Of wit, or arms, while both contend
All in a robe of darkest grain, To win her grace whom all commend : Flowing with majestic train, There let Hymen oft appear
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn, In saffron robe, with taper clear,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
Come, but keep thy wonted state, With mask, and antique pageantry,
With even step, and musing gait, Such sights as youthful poets dream
And looks commercing with the skies, On summer eves by haunted streain. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes :
There, held in holy passion still,
Or call up him that left half told Forget thyself to marble, till
The story of Cambuscan bold, With a sad leaden downward cast
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear. Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career, The cherub Contemplation;
Till silver-suited morn appear, And the mute Silence hist along,
Nor trickt and frounc'd as she was wont 'Less Philomel will deign a song,
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
With minute drops from off the caves.
His faring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves, On the dry smooth-shaven green,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, To behold the wand'ring nioon,
Of pine, or monumental oak, Riding near her highest noon,
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Like one that had been led astray
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Through the heaven's wide pathless way, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
There in close covert by some brook, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Where no profaner eye may look, Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
Hide me from day's garish eye, I hear the far-off curfeu sound
While the bee with honied thigh, Over some wide-water'd shore,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing, Swinging slow with sullen roar;
And the waters murmuring, Or, if the air will not permit,
With such concert as they keep, Some still removed place will fit,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep; Where glowing embers through the room And let some strange, mysterious dream Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Wave at his wings an airy stream Far from all resort of mirth,
Of lively portraiture display'd Save the cricket on the hearth,
Softly on my eye-lids laid. Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe To bless the doors from nightly harm :
Above, about, or underneath, Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Or th''unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
And love the high embowed roof,
Casting a dim, religious light. And of those demons that are found
There let the pealing organ blow, In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
To the full-voic'd quire below, Whose power hath a true consent
In service high, and anthems clear, With planet, or with element.
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
Dissolve me into ecstasies, In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
And bring all Heaven before inine eyes. Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
And may at last my weary age Or else the tale of Troy divine,
Find out the peaceful hermitage, Or what (though rare) of later age
The hairy gown and mossy cell, Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
Where I'may sit and rightly spell But, O) sad Virgin, that thy pow'r
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew, Might raise Museus from his bow'r,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew; Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Till old experience do attain Such notes as warbled to the string,
To something like prophetic strain. Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And made Hell grant what love did seek. And I with thee will choose to live.
$ 3. LYCIDAS. Milton.
been there--for what could that have Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once done? more,
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,
bore, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, The Muse herself for her enchanting son, And with forc'd fingers rude,
Whom universal nature did lainent, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year; When by the rout that made the hideous roar, Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Compels me to disturb your season due; Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Alas! what boots it with incessant care Young Lycidas, and hath not left his
peer : To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? l'imself to sing, and build the lofty rhime. Were it not better done, as others use, He must not float upon his wat ry bier To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Without the meed of some inelodious tear. Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, (That last infirmity of noble minds)
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, So may some gentle Muse
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the , With lucky words favor my destin'd
praise, And, as she passes, turn,
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
ears; For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade and rill. Nor in the glist'ring foil,
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Set off to th' world: nor in broad rumor lies, Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, We drove a-field, and both together heard And perfect witness of all-judging Jove: What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Batı’ning our Hocks with the resh dews of Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. night,
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor d food,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood :
And listens to the herald of the sea
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, From the glad sound would not be absent long, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.
swain? But, О the heavy change! now thou art And question'd ev'ry gust of rugged winds gone,
That blows from off each beaked promontory; Now thou art gone, and never must return! They knew not of his story, Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert And sage Hippodates their answer brings, caves
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- The air was calm, and on the level brine grown,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. And all their echoes, mourn.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark The willows and the hazel copses green, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, Shall now no more be seen
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Next Camus, reverend sire ! went footing As killing as the canker to the rose,
slow, Or taini-worm to the weaning herds that graze; His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge wear,
Like to that sanguine flow'r inscrib'd with When first the white-thorn blows ;
[pledge ? Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse- Last came, and last did less deep
The pilot of the Galilean lake: Closd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? Two inassy keys he bore of metals twain, For neither were ye playing on the steep, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) Where your old bards, ihe famous Druids, lie, He shook his initred locks, and stern bespake, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, How well could I have spar'd for thee, young Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: swain, Ah me, I fondly dream!
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! Where other groves and other streams along, Of other care they little reck’ning make, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, And stove away the worthy bidden guest; In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know There entertain him all the Saints above, how to hold
[least In solemn troops, and sweet societies, A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the That sing, and singing in their glory move, That to the faithful hurdman's art belongs ! And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. What recks it them? What need they? They Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; are sped ;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, And, when they list, their lean and fashy songs In thy large recompense, and shalt be good Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw: To all that wander'in that perilous flood. The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they rills, draw,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : Daily devours apace, and nothing said, And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, But that two-handed engine at the door And now was dropt into the western bay; Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. At last he rose and twitch'd his mantle blue:
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
$ 4. Virtue, Wisdom, and Contemplation. And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Milton. Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Virtue could see to do what Virtue would Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
By her own radiant light, though sun and Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing
Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, | Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, Where with her best nurse, Contemplation, That on the green turf suck the honied show'rs, She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings, And purple all the ground with vernal Mow'rs. That in the various bustle of resort Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white-pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, May sit i'th centre, and enjoy bright day:
He that hath light within his own clear breast The glowing violet,
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts, The musk-rose, and the well attir’d woodbine, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, Himself
is his own dungeon. And every flow'r that sad embroidery wears : Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
$5. Meditation and Beauty. Milton. And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
Musing Meditation most affects For so to interpose a little ease,
The pensive secrecy of desert cell, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Far froin the cheerful haunt of men and herds, Ah me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding for who would rob a hermit of his weeds,
And sits as safe as in a senate-house ; seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurla, His few books, or his beads, or maple dish, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Or do his grey hairs any violence ? Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Of dragon watch, with uninchanted eye, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit
Froin the rash hand of bold incontinence.
$ 6. Chastity. Milton.
She that has that, is clad in complete steel, And, Oye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth. And like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no May trace huge forests, and anharbour'd heaths. For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead; [more, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, Sunk ihough he be beneath the wat'ry Hoor; Where through the sacred rays of chastity, So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, No savage, fierce bandite, or mountaineer, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, Core Will dare to sail her virgin purity: And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled Yea there, where very desolation dwells, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; By grots, and caverns shaggʻd with horrid So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
shades, Through the dear might of him that walk'd She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, the waves
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.