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The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow States1 hard to be spell'd;
Then to advise how War may, best upheld,

Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage: besides to know

Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,

What severs each, thou hast learn'd, which few have done : The bounds of either sword to thee we owe :

Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones.
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks.
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

Their moans

To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learn'd thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

States: those of Holland. The late massacre:' this was organised by the Duke of Savoy in 1655. It was very barbarous. Those who escaped fled to the mountains of Piedmont, whence they applied to Cromwell for relief. He ordered a general fast, and made a national contribution, amounting to £40,000.

XIX. ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask : But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

XX. TO MR LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father1 virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may

be won

From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius2 re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lilly and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attick taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare

To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

เ The virtuous father' was Henry Lawrence, President of Cromwell's Council.-Favonius:' father of Spring.

XXI. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.1

CYRIACK, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that, after, no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede 2 intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know

Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

XXII. TO THE SAME.

CYRIACK, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

Skinner: a scholar of Milton's, and member of Harrington's political club.—2 'Swede:' Charles Gustavus against Poland, and the French against the Spaniards.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content though blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.1

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me, like Alcestis,2 from the grave,

Whom Jove's great son3 to her glad husband1 gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the old Law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd ;5 yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclin'd,
I wak'd; she fled; and day brought back my night.

1 This sonnet was written about the year 1656, on the death of his second wife, Catharine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock of Hackney. She died in child-bed of a daughter, within a year after their marriage. Milton had now been some time totally blind.—2 ‘Alcestis:' see Euripides. —3 ‘Great son:' Hercules. Glad husband:' Admetus.- 'Veil'd:' so was Alcestis.

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ODES.

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

I.

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,
Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and, here with us to be,

Forsook the courts of everlasting day,

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein

Afford a present to the Infant-God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,

Hath took no print of the approaching light,

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

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