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And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till

With a sad leaden downward cast

Thou fix them on the earth as fast:

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And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring

Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night;

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,

Gently o'er the accustom'd oak:

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And, missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray,
Through the heaven's wide pathless way;

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Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold

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What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine;

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.

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But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Museus from his bower!
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes, as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears from Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
Or call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

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And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;

And of the wondrous horse of brass,

On which the Tartar king did ride :
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of tournays, and of trophies hung,
Of forests and enchantments drear,

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Where more is meant than meets the ear.

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Thus Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,

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When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,

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Of pine, or monumental oak,

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Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,

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While the bee with honied thigh,

That at her flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With such consort as they keep,

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Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings in aery stream

Of lively portraiture display'd,

Softly on my eyelids laid,

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And, as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,

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Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

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And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that Heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

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MILTON.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing,
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre !
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,

Till the roofs all around

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And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;

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