In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence Of such late wassailers; yet O! where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet, In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge, Under the spreading favour of these pines, Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side, To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phæbus' wain: But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labour of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest They had engag’d their wandering steps too far ; And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stole them from me: else, O thievish night, Why should'st thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, That nature hung in heaven, and fill'd their lamps With everlasting oil, to give due light, To the misled and lonely traveller? This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear; Yet nought but single darkness do I find. What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And aery tongues, that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound, The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience. O welcome, pure ey'd Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings, And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity! I see ye visibly, and now believe That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, To kept my life and honor unassail'd. Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night? I did not err: there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.

I cannot hallo to my brothers, but
Such noise as I can make, to be heard farthest,
I'll venture ; for my new-enliven'd spirits
Prompt me; and they, perhaps, are not far off.

SONG.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nynıph, that liv’st, unseen,

Within thy aery shell,

By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroider'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 likesi thy Narcissus are ?

0, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.

Enter ComuS. Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishinent ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven-down Of darkness, till it smil'd! I have oft heard My mother Circé, with the Syrens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept, And chid her barking waves into attention, And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause : Yet they in pleasing slumber lull’d the sense, And in sweet madness robb’d it of itself: But such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss, I neve heard till now. I'll speak to her, And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder! Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, Unless the goddess that, in rural shrine, Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan; by bless'd song Forbidding every bleak, unkindly fog To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood.

Lad. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise, That is address’d to unattending ears ;

1

Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift
How to regain my sever'd company,
Compell’d me to awake the courteous Echo,
To give rne answer from her mossy couch.

Com. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus?
Lad. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth.
Com. Could that divide you from near ushering guides?
Lad. They left me weary on a grassy turf.
Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why?
Lad. To seek i’ the valley some cool friendly spring.
Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, lady?
Lad. They were but twain, and purpos’d quick return.
Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them.
Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit!
Com. Imports their loss, besides the present need?
Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose.
Com. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom?
Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips.

Com. Two such I saw, what time the labour'd ox
In his loose traces from the furrow came,
And the swink'd hedger at his supper sat.
I saw them under a green mantling vine,
That crawls along the side of yon small hill,
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots.
Their port was more than human, as they stood:
I took it for a faery vision
Of some gay creatures of the element,
That in the colors of the rainbow live,
And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck,
And, as I pass’d, I worship’d: if those you seek,
It were a journey like the path to heaver,
To help you find them.

Lad. Gentle villager,
What readiest way would bring me to that place?

Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby point.

Lad. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose,
In such a scant allowance of star-light,
Would overtask the best, land-pilot's art,
Without the sure guess of well-practis'd feet.

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green,
Dingle, or bushy deil of this wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood ;
And if your stray attendance be yet lodg'd,
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark
From her thatch'd pallet rouse ; if otherwise,
I can conduct you, Lady, to a low
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe
Till further questa

Lad. Shepherd I take thy word, And trust thy honest offer'd courtesy, Which oft is sooner found in lowly shed, With smoky rafters, than in tap’stry halls In courts of princes, where it first was nam’d, And yet is most pretended : in a place Less warranted than this, or less secure, I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.Eye me, bless'd Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.-Shepherd, lead on.

*

L'ALLEGRO.
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 sleep;
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 honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
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-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 hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
* L'Allegro is the cheerful, merry man.

Right against the castern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dighi; While the ploughman, near at hand,. Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, 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 landscape round it measures ; 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, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Towers and battlements it sees, Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savoury dinner set, Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tan'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes, with secure delight,
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecs sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the checquer'd shade ;
And young and old come forth to play,
On a sun-shine holy-day,
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 pinch'd and pull'd, she said ;
And he, by friar's lantern led,
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,
To earn his cream-bowl, duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,