{"id":31,"date":"2021-06-04T12:30:36","date_gmt":"2021-06-04T16:30:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics2024\/chapter\/john-milton\/"},"modified":"2024-08-08T15:53:47","modified_gmt":"2024-08-08T19:53:47","slug":"john-milton","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/poetryandpoetics2024\/chapter\/john-milton\/","title":{"raw":"John Milton","rendered":"John Milton"},"content":{"raw":"

Song on May Morning<\/h1>\nNow the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,\nComes dancing from the East, and leads with her\nThe Flowry May, who from her green lap throws\nThe yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.\nHail bounteous May that dost inspire\nMirth and youth, and warm desire,\nWoods and Groves, are of thy dressing,\nHill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.\nThus we salute thee with our early Song,\nAnd welcom thee, and wish thee long.\n

Il Penseroso<\/h1>\nHence vain deluding Joys,\nThe brood of Folly without father bred,\nHow little you bested,\nOr fill the fixed mind with all your toys;\nDwell in some idle brain,\nAnd fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,\nAs thick and numberless\nAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,\nOr likest hovering dreams,\nThe fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.\nBut hail thou goddess, sage and holy,\nHail divinest Melancholy,\nWhose saintly visage is too bright\nTo hit the sense of human sight;\nAnd therefore to our weaker view,\nO'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;\nBlack, but such as in esteem,\nPrince Memnon's sister might beseem,\nOr that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove\nTo set her beauty's praise above\nThe sea nymphs, and their powers offended.\nYet thou art higher far descended,\nThee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,\nTo solitary Saturn bore;\nHis daughter she (in Saturn's reign,\nSuch mixture was not held a stain)\nOft in glimmering bow'rs and glades\nHe met her, and in secret shades\nOf woody Ida's inmost grove,\nWhile yet there was no fear of Jove.\nCome pensive nun, devout and pure,\nSober, stedfast, and demure,\nAll in a robe of darkest grain,\nFlowing with majestic train,\nAnd sable stole of cypress lawn,\nOver thy decent shoulders drawn.\nCome, but keep thy wonted state,\nWith ev'n step, and musing gait,\nAnd looks commercing with the skies,\nThy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:\nThere held in holy passion still,\nForget thyself to marble, till\nWith a sad leaden downward cast,\nThou fix them on the earth as fast.\nAnd join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,\nSpare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,\nAnd hears the Muses in a ring,\nAye round about Jove's altar sing.\nAnd add to these retired Leisure,\nThat in trim gardens takes his pleasure;\nBut first, and chiefest, with thee bring\nHim that yon soars on golden wing,\nGuiding the fiery-wheeled throne,\nThe cherub Contemplation;\nAnd the mute Silence hist along,\n'Less Philomel will deign a song,\nIn her sweetest, saddest plight,\nSmoothing the rugged brow of night,\nWhile Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,\nGently o'er th' accustom'd oak.\nSweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,\nMost musical, most melancholy!\nThee, chauntress, oft the woods among,\nI woo to hear thy even-song;\nAnd missing thee, I walk unseen\nOn the dry smooth-shaven green,\nTo behold the wand'ring Moon,\nRiding near her highest noon,\nLike one that had been led astray\nThrough the heav'ns wide pathless way;\nAnd oft, as if her head she bow'd,\nStooping through a fleecy cloud.\nOft on a plat of rising ground,\nI hear the far-off curfew sound,\nOver some wide-water'd shore,\nSwinging slow with sullen roar;\nOr if the air will not permit,\nSome still removed place will fit,\nWhere glowing embers through the room\nTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,\nFar from all resort of mirth,\nSave the cricket on the hearth,\nOr the bellman's drowsy charm,\nTo bless the doors from nightly harm.\nOr let my lamp at midnight hour,\nBe seen in some high lonely tow'r,\nWhere I may oft out-watch the Bear,\nWith thrice great Hermes, or unsphere\nThe spirit of Plato, to unfold\nWhat worlds, or what vast regions hold\nThe immortal mind that hath forsook\nHer mansion in this fleshly nook:\nAnd of those d\u00e6mons that are found\nIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,\nWhose power hath a true consent\nWith planet, or with element.\nSometime let gorgeous Tragedy\nIn sceptr'd pall come sweeping by,\nPresenting Thebes', or Pelop's line,\nOr the tale of Troy divine,\nOr what (though rare) of later age,\nEnnobled hath the buskin'd stage.\nBut, O sad Virgin, that thy power\nMight raise Mus\u00e6us from his bower,\nOr bid the soul of Orpheus sing\nSuch notes as, warbled to the string,\nDrew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,\nAnd made Hell grant what love did seek.\nOr call up him that left half told\nThe story of Cambuscan bold,\nOf Camball, and of Algarsife,\nAnd who had Canace to wife,\nThat own'd the virtuous ring and glass,\nAnd of the wond'rous horse of brass,\nOn which the Tartar king did ride;\nAnd if aught else, great bards beside,\nIn sage and solemn tunes have sung,\nOf tourneys and of trophies hung,\nOf forests, and enchantments drear,\nWhere more is meant than meets the ear.\nThus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,\nTill civil-suited Morn appear,\nNot trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,\nWith the Attic boy to hunt,\nBut kerchief'd in a comely cloud,\nWhile rocking winds are piping loud,\nOr usher'd with a shower still,\nWhen the gust hath blown his fill,\nEnding on the rustling leaves,\nWith minute-drops from off the eaves.\nAnd when the Sun begins to fling\nHis flaring beams, me, goddess, bring\nTo arched walks of twilight groves,\nAnd shadows brown that Sylvan loves,\nOf pine, or monumental oak,\nWhere the rude axe with heaved stroke,\nWas never heard the nymphs to daunt,\nOr fright them from their hallow'd haunt.\nThere in close covert by some brook,\nWhere no profaner eye may look,\nHide me from Day's garish eye,\nWhile the bee with honied thigh,\nThat at her flow'ry work doth sing,\nAnd the waters murmuring\nWith such consort as they keep,\nEntice the dewy-feather'd sleep;\nAnd let some strange mysterious dream,\nWave at his wings, in airy stream\nOf lively portraiture display'd,\nSoftly on my eye-lids laid.\nAnd as I wake, sweet music breathe\nAbove, about, or underneath,\nSent by some spirit to mortals good,\nOr th' unseen Genius of the wood.\n\nBut let my due feet never fail\nTo walk the studious cloister's pale,\nAnd love the high embowed roof,\nWith antique pillars massy proof,\nAnd storied windows richly dight,\nCasting a dim religious light.\nThere let the pealing organ blow,\nTo the full-voic'd quire below,\nIn service high, and anthems clear,\nAs may with sweetness, through mine ear,\nDissolve me into ecstasies,\nAnd bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.\nAnd may at last my weary age\nFind out the peaceful hermitage,\nThe hairy gown and mossy cell,\nWhere I may sit and rightly spell\nOf every star that Heav'n doth shew,\nAnd every herb that sips the dew;\nTill old experience do attain\nTo something like prophetic strain.\nThese pleasures, Melancholy, give,\nAnd I with thee will choose to live.\n

L\u2019Allegro<\/h1>\nHence loathed Melancholy,\nOf Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,\nIn Stygian cave forlorn,\n'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy;\nFind out some uncouth cell,\nWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,\nAnd the night-raven sings;\nThere under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,\nAs ragged as thy locks,\nIn dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.\nBut come thou goddess fair and free,\nIn heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,\nAnd by men, heart-easing Mirth,\nWhom lovely Venus at a birth\nWith two sister Graces more\nTo Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;\nOr whether (as some sager sing)\nThe frolic wind that breathes the spring,\nZephyr, with Aurora playing,\nAs he met her once a-Maying,\nThere on beds of violets blue,\nAnd fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,\nFill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,\nSo buxom, blithe, and debonair.\nHaste thee nymph, and bring with thee\nJest and youthful Jollity,\nQuips and cranks, and wanton wiles,\nNods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,\nSuch as hang on Hebe's cheek,\nAnd love to live in dimple sleek;\nSport that wrinkled Care derides,\nAnd Laughter holding both his sides.\nCome, and trip it as ye go\nOn the light fantastic toe,\nAnd in thy right hand lead with thee,\nThe mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;\nAnd if I give thee honour due,\nMirth, admit me of thy crew\nTo live with her, and live with thee,\nIn unreproved pleasures free;\nTo hear the lark begin his flight,\nAnd singing startle the dull night,\nFrom his watch-tower in the skies,\nTill the dappled dawn doth rise;\nThen to come in spite of sorrow,\nAnd at my window bid good-morrow,\nThrough the sweet-briar, or the vine,\nOr the twisted eglantine;\nWhile the cock with lively din,\nScatters the rear of darkness thin,\nAnd to the stack, or the barn door,\nStoutly struts his dames before;\nOft list'ning how the hounds and horn\nCheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,\nFrom the side of some hoar hill,\nThrough the high wood echoing shrill.\nSometime walking, not unseen,\nBy hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,\nRight against the eastern gate,\nWhere the great Sun begins his state,\nRob'd in flames, and amber light,\nThe clouds in thousand liveries dight.\nWhile the ploughman near at hand,\nWhistles o'er the furrow'd land,\nAnd the milkmaid singeth blithe,\nAnd the mower whets his scythe,\nAnd every shepherd tells his tale\nUnder the hawthorn in the dale.\nStraight mine eye hath caught new pleasures\nWhilst the landskip round it measures,\nRusset lawns, and fallows gray,\nWhere the nibbling flocks do stray;\nMountains on whose barren breast\nThe labouring clouds do often rest;\nMeadows trim with daisies pied,\nShallow brooks, and rivers wide.\nTowers, and battlements it sees\nBosom'd high in tufted trees,\nWhere perhaps some beauty lies,\nThe cynosure of neighbouring eyes.\nHard by, a cottage chimney smokes,\nFrom betwixt two aged oaks,\nWhere Corydon and Thyrsis met,\nAre at their savoury dinner set\nOf herbs, and other country messes,\nWhich the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;\nAnd then in haste her bow'r she leaves,\nWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;\nOr if the earlier season lead\nTo the tann'd haycock in the mead.\nSometimes with secure delight\nThe upland hamlets will invite,\nWhen the merry bells ring round,\nAnd the jocund rebecks sound\nTo many a youth, and many a maid,\nDancing in the chequer'd shade;\nAnd young and old come forth to play\nOn a sunshine holiday,\nTill the live-long daylight fail;\nThen to the spicy nut-brown ale,\nWith stories told of many a feat,\nHow Faery Mab the junkets eat,\nShe was pinch'd and pull'd she said,\nAnd he by friar's lanthorn led,\nTells how the drudging goblin sweat,\nTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,\nWhen in one night, ere glimpse of morn,\nHis shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn\nThat ten day-labourers could not end;\nThen lies him down, the lubber fiend,\nAnd stretch'd out all the chimney's length,\nBasks at the fire his hairy strength;\nAnd crop-full out of doors he flings,\nEre the first cock his matin rings.\nThus done the tales, to bed they creep,\nBy whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.\nTower'd cities please us then,\nAnd the busy hum of men,\nWhere throngs of knights and barons bold,\nIn weeds of peace high triumphs hold,\nWith store of ladies, whose bright eyes\nRain influence, and judge the prize\nOf wit, or arms, while both contend\nTo win her grace, whom all commend.\nThere let Hymen oft appear\nIn saffron robe, with taper clear,\nAnd pomp, and feast, and revelry,\nWith mask, and antique pageantry;\nSuch sights as youthful poets dream\nOn summer eves by haunted stream.\nThen to the well-trod stage anon,\nIf Jonson's learned sock be on,\nOr sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,\nWarble his native wood-notes wild.\nAnd ever against eating cares,\nLap me in soft Lydian airs,\nMarried to immortal verse,\nSuch as the meeting soul may pierce\nIn notes with many a winding bout\nOf linked sweetness long drawn out,\nWith wanton heed, and giddy cunning,\nThe melting voice through mazes running,\nUntwisting all the chains that tie\nThe hidden soul of harmony;\nThat Orpheus' self may heave his head\nFrom golden slumber on a bed\nOf heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear\nSuch strains as would have won the ear\nOf Pluto, to have quite set free\nHis half-regain'd Eurydice.\nThese delights if thou canst give,\nMirth, with thee I mean to live.\n

On His Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three<\/h1>\nHow soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,\nStolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!\nMy hasting days fly on with full career,\nBut my late spring no bud or blossom shew\u2019th.\nPerhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,\nThat I to manhood am arrived so near,\nAnd inward ripeness doth much less appear,\nThat some more timely-happy spirits indu\u2019th.\nYet be it less or more, or soon or slow,\nIt shall be still in strictest measure even\nTo that same lot, however mean or high,\nToward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,\nAll is, if I have grace to use it so,\nAs ever in my great Task-master\u2019s eye\n

To Cyriack Skinner<\/h1>\nCYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench\nOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applause\nPronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes,\nWhich others at their Barr so often wrench:\nTo day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench\nIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;\nLet Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,\nAnd what the Swede intend, and what the French.\nTo measure life, learn thou betimes, and know\nToward solid good what leads the nearest way;\nFor other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,\nAnd disapproves that care, though wise in show,\nThat with superfluous burden loads the day,\nAnd when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.\n

On Shakespeare<\/h1>\nWhat needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,\nThe labor of an age in pil\u00e8d stones,\nOr that his hallowed relics should be hid\nUnder a star-ypointing pyramid?\nDear son of Memory, great heir of fame,\nWhat need\u2019st thou such weak witness of thy name?\nThou in our wonder and astonishment\nHast built thyself a live-long monument.\nFor whilst to th\u2019 shame of slow-endeavouring art,\nThy easy numbers flow, and that each heart\nHath from the leaves of thy unvalued book\nThose Delphic lines with deep impression took,\nThen thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,\nDost make us marble with too much conceiving;\nAnd so sep\u00falchred in such pomp dost lie,\nThat kings for such a tomb would wish to die.\n

On His Deceased Wife<\/h1>\nMe thought I saw my late espous\u00e8d Saint\nBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,\nWhom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,\nRescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.\nMine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,\nPurification in the old Law did save,\nAnd such, as yet once more I trust to have\nFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,\nCame vested all in white, pure as her mind:\nHer face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,\nLove, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd\nSo clear, as in no face with more delight.\nBut O as to embrace me she enclin'd\nI wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.\n

On His Blindness<\/h1>\nWhen I consider how my light is spent,\nEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,\nAnd that one Talent which is death to hide\nLodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent\nTo serve therewith my Maker, and present\nMy true account, lest he returning chide;\n\u201cDoth God exact day-labour, light denied?\u201d\nI fondly ask. But patience, to prevent\nThat murmur, soon replies, \u201cGod doth not need\nEither man\u2019s work or his own gifts; who best\nBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state\nIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed\nAnd post o\u2019er Land and Ocean without rest:\nThey also serve who only stand and wait.\u201d\n\n
\n\n

Sources<\/h2>\n\u201cSong on May Morning\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poets.org.<\/a>\n\n\u201cIl Penseroso\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.\n\n\u201cL\u2019Allegro\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.\n\n\u201cOn His Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Owlcation<\/a>.\n\n\u201cTo Cyriack Skinner\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Englishverse<\/a>.\n\n\u201cOn Shakespeare\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.\n\n\"On his Deceased Wife\" by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poets.org.<\/a>\n\n\u201cOn His Blindness\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.\n\n \n\n \n\n ","rendered":"

Song on May Morning<\/h1>\n

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
\nComes dancing from the East, and leads with her
\nThe Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
\nThe yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
\nHail bounteous May that dost inspire
\nMirth and youth, and warm desire,
\nWoods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
\nHill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
\nThus we salute thee with our early Song,
\nAnd welcom thee, and wish thee long.<\/p>\n

Il Penseroso<\/h1>\n

Hence vain deluding Joys,
\nThe brood of Folly without father bred,
\nHow little you bested,
\nOr fill the fixed mind with all your toys;
\nDwell in some idle brain,
\nAnd fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
\nAs thick and numberless
\nAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
\nOr likest hovering dreams,
\nThe fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train.
\nBut hail thou goddess, sage and holy,
\nHail divinest Melancholy,
\nWhose saintly visage is too bright
\nTo hit the sense of human sight;
\nAnd therefore to our weaker view,
\nO’er-laid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue;
\nBlack, but such as in esteem,
\nPrince Memnon’s sister might beseem,
\nOr that starr’d Ethiop queen that strove
\nTo set her beauty’s praise above
\nThe sea nymphs, and their powers offended.
\nYet thou art higher far descended,
\nThee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,
\nTo solitary Saturn bore;
\nHis daughter she (in Saturn’s reign,
\nSuch mixture was not held a stain)
\nOft in glimmering bow’rs and glades
\nHe met her, and in secret shades
\nOf woody Ida’s inmost grove,
\nWhile yet there was no fear of Jove.
\nCome pensive nun, devout and pure,
\nSober, stedfast, and demure,
\nAll in a robe of darkest grain,
\nFlowing with majestic train,
\nAnd sable stole of cypress lawn,
\nOver thy decent shoulders drawn.
\nCome, but keep thy wonted state,
\nWith ev’n step, and musing gait,
\nAnd looks commercing with the skies,
\nThy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
\nThere held in holy passion still,
\nForget thyself to marble, till
\nWith a sad leaden downward cast,
\nThou fix them on the earth as fast.
\nAnd join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
\nSpare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
\nAnd hears the Muses in a ring,
\nAye round about Jove’s altar sing.
\nAnd add to these retired Leisure,
\nThat in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
\nBut first, and chiefest, with thee bring
\nHim that yon soars on golden wing,
\nGuiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
\nThe cherub Contemplation;
\nAnd the mute Silence hist along,
\n‘Less Philomel will deign a song,
\nIn her sweetest, saddest plight,
\nSmoothing the rugged brow of night,
\nWhile Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
\nGently o’er th’ accustom’d oak.
\nSweet bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,
\nMost musical, most melancholy!
\nThee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
\nI woo to hear thy even-song;
\nAnd missing thee, I walk unseen
\nOn the dry smooth-shaven green,
\nTo behold the wand’ring Moon,
\nRiding near her highest noon,
\nLike one that had been led astray
\nThrough the heav’ns wide pathless way;
\nAnd oft, as if her head she bow’d,
\nStooping through a fleecy cloud.
\nOft on a plat of rising ground,
\nI hear the far-off curfew sound,
\nOver some wide-water’d shore,
\nSwinging slow with sullen roar;
\nOr if the air will not permit,
\nSome still removed place will fit,
\nWhere glowing embers through the room
\nTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,
\nFar from all resort of mirth,
\nSave the cricket on the hearth,
\nOr the bellman’s drowsy charm,
\nTo bless the doors from nightly harm.
\nOr let my lamp at midnight hour,
\nBe seen in some high lonely tow’r,
\nWhere I may oft out-watch the Bear,
\nWith thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
\nThe spirit of Plato, to unfold
\nWhat worlds, or what vast regions hold
\nThe immortal mind that hath forsook
\nHer mansion in this fleshly nook:
\nAnd of those d\u00e6mons that are found
\nIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,
\nWhose power hath a true consent
\nWith planet, or with element.
\nSometime let gorgeous Tragedy
\nIn sceptr’d pall come sweeping by,
\nPresenting Thebes’, or Pelop’s line,
\nOr the tale of Troy divine,
\nOr what (though rare) of later age,
\nEnnobled hath the buskin’d stage.
\nBut, O sad Virgin, that thy power
\nMight raise Mus\u00e6us from his bower,
\nOr bid the soul of Orpheus sing
\nSuch notes as, warbled to the string,
\nDrew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
\nAnd made Hell grant what love did seek.
\nOr call up him that left half told
\nThe story of Cambuscan bold,
\nOf Camball, and of Algarsife,
\nAnd who had Canace to wife,
\nThat own’d the virtuous ring and glass,
\nAnd of the wond’rous horse of brass,
\nOn which the Tartar king did ride;
\nAnd if aught else, great bards beside,
\nIn sage and solemn tunes have sung,
\nOf tourneys and of trophies hung,
\nOf forests, and enchantments drear,
\nWhere more is meant than meets the ear.
\nThus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
\nTill civil-suited Morn appear,
\nNot trick’d and frounc’d as she was wont,
\nWith the Attic boy to hunt,
\nBut kerchief’d in a comely cloud,
\nWhile rocking winds are piping loud,
\nOr usher’d with a shower still,
\nWhen the gust hath blown his fill,
\nEnding on the rustling leaves,
\nWith minute-drops from off the eaves.
\nAnd when the Sun begins to fling
\nHis flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
\nTo arched walks of twilight groves,
\nAnd shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
\nOf pine, or monumental oak,
\nWhere the rude axe with heaved stroke,
\nWas never heard the nymphs to daunt,
\nOr fright them from their hallow’d haunt.
\nThere in close covert by some brook,
\nWhere no profaner eye may look,
\nHide me from Day’s garish eye,
\nWhile the bee with honied thigh,
\nThat at her flow’ry work doth sing,
\nAnd the waters murmuring
\nWith such consort as they keep,
\nEntice the dewy-feather’d sleep;
\nAnd let some strange mysterious dream,
\nWave at his wings, in airy stream
\nOf lively portraiture display’d,
\nSoftly on my eye-lids laid.
\nAnd as I wake, sweet music breathe
\nAbove, about, or underneath,
\nSent by some spirit to mortals good,
\nOr th’ unseen Genius of the wood.<\/p>\n

But let my due feet never fail
\nTo walk the studious cloister’s pale,
\nAnd love the high embowed roof,
\nWith antique pillars massy proof,
\nAnd storied windows richly dight,
\nCasting a dim religious light.
\nThere let the pealing organ blow,
\nTo the full-voic’d quire below,
\nIn service high, and anthems clear,
\nAs may with sweetness, through mine ear,
\nDissolve me into ecstasies,
\nAnd bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.
\nAnd may at last my weary age
\nFind out the peaceful hermitage,
\nThe hairy gown and mossy cell,
\nWhere I may sit and rightly spell
\nOf every star that Heav’n doth shew,
\nAnd every herb that sips the dew;
\nTill old experience do attain
\nTo something like prophetic strain.
\nThese pleasures, Melancholy, give,
\nAnd I with thee will choose to live.<\/p>\n

L\u2019Allegro<\/h1>\n

Hence loathed Melancholy,
\nOf Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,
\nIn Stygian cave forlorn,
\n‘Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy;
\nFind out some uncouth cell,
\nWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
\nAnd the night-raven sings;
\nThere under ebon shades, and low-brow’d rocks,
\nAs ragged as thy locks,
\nIn dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
\nBut come thou goddess fair and free,
\nIn heav’n yclep’d Euphrosyne,
\nAnd by men, heart-easing Mirth,
\nWhom lovely Venus at a birth
\nWith two sister Graces more
\nTo Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
\nOr whether (as some sager sing)
\nThe frolic wind that breathes the spring,
\nZephyr, with Aurora playing,
\nAs he met her once a-Maying,
\nThere on beds of violets blue,
\nAnd fresh-blown roses wash’d in dew,
\nFill’d her with thee, a daughter fair,
\nSo buxom, blithe, and debonair.
\nHaste thee nymph, and bring with thee
\nJest and youthful Jollity,
\nQuips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
\nNods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
\nSuch as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
\nAnd love to live in dimple sleek;
\nSport that wrinkled Care derides,
\nAnd Laughter holding both his sides.
\nCome, and trip it as ye go
\nOn the light fantastic toe,
\nAnd in thy right hand lead with thee,
\nThe mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
\nAnd if I give thee honour due,
\nMirth, admit me of thy crew
\nTo live with her, and live with thee,
\nIn unreproved pleasures free;
\nTo hear the lark begin his flight,
\nAnd singing startle the dull night,
\nFrom his watch-tower in the skies,
\nTill the dappled dawn doth rise;
\nThen to come in spite of sorrow,
\nAnd at my window bid good-morrow,
\nThrough the sweet-briar, or the vine,
\nOr the twisted eglantine;
\nWhile the cock with lively din,
\nScatters the rear of darkness thin,
\nAnd to the stack, or the barn door,
\nStoutly struts his dames before;
\nOft list’ning how the hounds and horn
\nCheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn,
\nFrom the side of some hoar hill,
\nThrough the high wood echoing shrill.
\nSometime walking, not unseen,
\nBy hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
\nRight against the eastern gate,
\nWhere the great Sun begins his state,
\nRob’d in flames, and amber light,
\nThe clouds in thousand liveries dight.
\nWhile the ploughman near at hand,
\nWhistles o’er the furrow’d land,
\nAnd the milkmaid singeth blithe,
\nAnd the mower whets his scythe,
\nAnd every shepherd tells his tale
\nUnder the hawthorn in the dale.
\nStraight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
\nWhilst the landskip round it measures,
\nRusset lawns, and fallows gray,
\nWhere the nibbling flocks do stray;
\nMountains on whose barren breast
\nThe labouring clouds do often rest;
\nMeadows trim with daisies pied,
\nShallow brooks, and rivers wide.
\nTowers, and battlements it sees
\nBosom’d high in tufted trees,
\nWhere perhaps some beauty lies,
\nThe cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
\nHard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
\nFrom betwixt two aged oaks,
\nWhere Corydon and Thyrsis met,
\nAre at their savoury dinner set
\nOf herbs, and other country messes,
\nWhich the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
\nAnd then in haste her bow’r she leaves,
\nWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
\nOr if the earlier season lead
\nTo the tann’d haycock in the mead.
\nSometimes with secure delight
\nThe upland hamlets will invite,
\nWhen the merry bells ring round,
\nAnd the jocund rebecks sound
\nTo many a youth, and many a maid,
\nDancing in the chequer’d shade;
\nAnd young and old come forth to play
\nOn a sunshine holiday,
\nTill the live-long daylight fail;
\nThen to the spicy nut-brown ale,
\nWith stories told of many a feat,
\nHow Faery Mab the junkets eat,
\nShe was pinch’d and pull’d she said,
\nAnd he by friar’s lanthorn led,
\nTells how the drudging goblin sweat,
\nTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,
\nWhen in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
\nHis shadowy flail hath thresh’d the corn
\nThat ten day-labourers could not end;
\nThen lies him down, the lubber fiend,
\nAnd stretch’d out all the chimney’s length,
\nBasks at the fire his hairy strength;
\nAnd crop-full out of doors he flings,
\nEre the first cock his matin rings.
\nThus done the tales, to bed they creep,
\nBy whispering winds soon lull’d asleep.
\nTower’d cities please us then,
\nAnd the busy hum of men,
\nWhere throngs of knights and barons bold,
\nIn weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
\nWith store of ladies, whose bright eyes
\nRain influence, and judge the prize
\nOf wit, or arms, while both contend
\nTo win her grace, whom all commend.
\nThere let Hymen oft appear
\nIn saffron robe, with taper clear,
\nAnd pomp, and feast, and revelry,
\nWith mask, and antique pageantry;
\nSuch sights as youthful poets dream
\nOn summer eves by haunted stream.
\nThen to the well-trod stage anon,
\nIf Jonson’s learned sock be on,
\nOr sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,
\nWarble his native wood-notes wild.
\nAnd ever against eating cares,
\nLap me in soft Lydian airs,
\nMarried to immortal verse,
\nSuch as the meeting soul may pierce
\nIn notes with many a winding bout
\nOf linked sweetness long drawn out,
\nWith wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
\nThe melting voice through mazes running,
\nUntwisting all the chains that tie
\nThe hidden soul of harmony;
\nThat Orpheus’ self may heave his head
\nFrom golden slumber on a bed
\nOf heap’d Elysian flow’rs, and hear
\nSuch strains as would have won the ear
\nOf Pluto, to have quite set free
\nHis half-regain’d Eurydice.
\nThese delights if thou canst give,
\nMirth, with thee I mean to live.<\/p>\n

On His Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three<\/h1>\n

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
\nStolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
\nMy hasting days fly on with full career,
\nBut my late spring no bud or blossom shew\u2019th.
\nPerhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
\nThat I to manhood am arrived so near,
\nAnd inward ripeness doth much less appear,
\nThat some more timely-happy spirits indu\u2019th.
\nYet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
\nIt shall be still in strictest measure even
\nTo that same lot, however mean or high,
\nToward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,
\nAll is, if I have grace to use it so,
\nAs ever in my great Task-master\u2019s eye<\/p>\n

To Cyriack Skinner<\/h1>\n

CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
\nOf Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
\nPronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
\nWhich others at their Barr so often wrench:
\nTo day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
\nIn mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
\nLet Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
\nAnd what the Swede intend, and what the French.
\nTo measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
\nToward solid good what leads the nearest way;
\nFor other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
\nAnd disapproves that care, though wise in show,
\nThat with superfluous burden loads the day,
\nAnd when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.<\/p>\n

On Shakespeare<\/h1>\n

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
\nThe labor of an age in pil\u00e8d stones,
\nOr that his hallowed relics should be hid
\nUnder a star-ypointing pyramid?
\nDear son of Memory, great heir of fame,
\nWhat need\u2019st thou such weak witness of thy name?
\nThou in our wonder and astonishment
\nHast built thyself a live-long monument.
\nFor whilst to th\u2019 shame of slow-endeavouring art,
\nThy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
\nHath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
\nThose Delphic lines with deep impression took,
\nThen thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
\nDost make us marble with too much conceiving;
\nAnd so sep\u00falchred in such pomp dost lie,
\nThat kings for such a tomb would wish to die.<\/p>\n

On His Deceased Wife<\/h1>\n

Me thought I saw my late espous\u00e8d Saint
\nBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
\nWhom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
\nRescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
\nMine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
\nPurification in the old Law did save,
\nAnd such, as yet once more I trust to have
\nFull sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
\nCame vested all in white, pure as her mind:
\nHer face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
\nLove, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
\nSo clear, as in no face with more delight.
\nBut O as to embrace me she enclin’d
\nI wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.<\/p>\n

On His Blindness<\/h1>\n

When I consider how my light is spent,
\nEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,
\nAnd that one Talent which is death to hide
\nLodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
\nTo serve therewith my Maker, and present
\nMy true account, lest he returning chide;
\n\u201cDoth God exact day-labour, light denied?\u201d
\nI fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
\nThat murmur, soon replies, \u201cGod doth not need
\nEither man\u2019s work or his own gifts; who best
\nBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
\nIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
\nAnd post o\u2019er Land and Ocean without rest:
\nThey also serve who only stand and wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

Sources<\/h2>\n

\u201cSong on May Morning\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poets.org.<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cIl Penseroso\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\u201cL\u2019Allegro\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn His Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Owlcation<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo Cyriack Skinner\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Englishverse<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn Shakespeare\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.<\/p>\n

“On his Deceased Wife” by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poets.org.<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cOn His Blindness\u201d by John Milton is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation<\/a>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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