Sonnets. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet had'st no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, That I to manhood am arrived so near; It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broadway and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heavenly truth, The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but piety and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president Of England's council and her treasury, Who lived in both, unstained with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till sad the breaking of that Parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Charonea, fatal to liberty, Killed with report that old man eloquent. Toward which time leads me, and the will of Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flouished, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet; So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honoured Margaret. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOL LOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES. A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon, And woven close, both matter, form, and style: The subject new: it walked the town a while, Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on. Cries the stall-reader, Bless us! what a word on A title page is this! and some in file Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile End Green. Why is it harder, Sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek, That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek. ON THE SAME. I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS. HARRY, whose tuneful and well measured song Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing To honour thee the priest of Phoebus' choir, That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best. Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beam And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings; Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their hydra heads, and the false north displays Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, (For what can war, but endless war still breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith cleared from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed, While avarice and rapine share the land. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROM WELL. CROMWELL, Our chief of men, who through a cloud, Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plonghed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much re mains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. TO SIR HENRY VANE, THE YOUNGER. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; Than whom a better senator ne'er held The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms repelled The fierce Epirot and the African bold; Whether to settle peace or to unfold The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled; 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, The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIE MONT. TO MR. LAWRENCE. The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Forget not in thy book record their groans moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they Of British Themis, with no mean applause To measure life learn thou betimes, and know To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes And disapproves that care, though wise in show, SOW O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my life is spent To serve therewith my Maker, and present state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, That with superfluous burden loads the day ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.* METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, tho' 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; 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. This sonnet was written about the year 1656, on the death of his second wife, Catharine, the daughter of Captain Woodcock, of Hackney, a rigid sectarist. She died in child-bed of a daughter, within a year after their marriage. Milton had now been long totally blind. THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, LIB. I. WHAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours, Plain in thy neatness? O, how oft shall he Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Hopes thee, of flattering gales To whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me, in my vow'd My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea. FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH.* FROM DANTE. AH, Constantine, of how much ill was cause, Not thy conversion, but those rich domains That the first wealthy pope receiv'd of thee. FROM DANTE. FOUNDED in chaste and humble poverty, FROM ARIOSTO. THEN pass'd he to a flowery mountain green, Which once smelt sweet, now stinks as odiously: This was the gift, if you the truth will have, That Constantine to good Sylvester gave. FROM HORACE. BRUTUS thus addresses DIANA in the country of WHOM do we count a good man? Whom but he LEOGECIA. GODDESS of shades, and huntress, who at will To whom, sleeping before the altar, DIANA answers in a vision, the same night. BRUTUS, far to the west, in the ocean wide, Hist. Brit. i. xi. "Diva potens nemorum," &c. Who keeps the laws and statutes of the senate, FROM EURIPIDES. THIS is true liberty, when freeborn men, FROM HORACE. -Laughing to teach the truth, What hinders? As some teachers give to boys Junkets and knacks, that they may learn apace. FROM HORACE. -Joking decides great things, Stronger and better oft than earnest can. FROM SOPHOCLES. 'Tis you that say it, not I. You do the deeds, And your ungodly deeds find me the words. FROM SENECA. -There can be slain No sacrifice to God more acceptable, Than an unjust and wicked king. PSALM I. Done into verse, 1653 BLESSED is the man who hath not walked astray Be taught, ye judges of the earth; with fear Jehovah serve, and let your joy converse With trembling; kiss the Son, lest he appear In anger and ye perish in the way, If once his wrath take fire, like fuel sere, Happy all those who have in him their stay. PSALM III. Aug. 9, 1653. When he fled from Absalom. LORD, how many are my foes! How many those, That in arms against me rise. That of my life distrustfully thus say; But thou, Lord, art my shield, my glory The exalter of my head I count Unto Jehovah, he full soon replied, I lay and slept; I waked again; Was the Lord. Of many millions I fear not, though, encamping round about, They pitch against me their pavilions. Rise, Lord; save me, my God; for thou On the cheek-bone all my foes, Of men abhorred Shall laugh; the Lord shall scoff them; then, Thou didst me disenthrall severe, Speak to them in his wrath, and in his fell And fierce ire trouble them; but I, saith he, Anointed have my King (though ye rebel) On Sion my holy hill. A firm decree I will declare: The Lord to me hath said, Thou art my Son, I have begotten thee This day; ask of me, and the grant is made; As thy possession I on thee bestow The heathen; and, as thy conquest to be sway'd, Earth's utmost bounds: them shalt thou bring full low With iron sceptre bruised, and them disperse Like to a potter's vessel shivered so. And now be wise at length, ye kings averse, And set at large; now spare, Now pity me, and hear my earnest prayer. My glory have in scorn? To love, to seek, to prize, Things false and vain, and nothing else but lies? The good and meek of heart; Will hear my voice, what time to him I cry. |