87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.He that loves a rosy cheekOr a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires;As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires:—Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.T. CAREW.
88. TO DIANEME.Sweet, be not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike sparkle in their skies;Nor be you proud, that you can seeAll hearts your captives; yours yet free:Be you not proud of that rich hairWhich wantons with the lovesick air;Whenas that ruby which you wear,Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,Will last to be a precious stone,When all your world of beauty's gone.R. HERRICK.
89.Go, lovely Rose!Tell her, that wastes her time and me,That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied,That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired:Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rareMay read in thee:How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!E. WALLER.
90. TO CELIA.Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!B. JONSON.
91. CHERRY-RIPE.There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:Yet them no peer nor prince can buyTill Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat'ning with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,—Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!ANON.
92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.I.A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:—A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distractión,—An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals the crimson stomacher,—A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibbands to flow confusedly,—A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat,—A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility;—Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.R. HERRICK.
93.—II.Whenas in silks my Julia goesThen, then (methinks) how sweetly flowsThat liquefaction of her clothes.Next, when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free;O how that glittering taketh me!R. HERRICK.
94.—III.My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her;For every season she hath dressings fit,For Winter, Spring, and Summer.No beauty she doth missWhen all her robes are onBut Beauty's self she isWhen all her robes are gone.ANON.
95. ON A GIRDLE.That which her slender waist confinedShall now my joyful temples bind:No monarch but would give his crownHis arms might do what this has done.It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,The pale which held that lovely deer:My joy, my grief, my hope, my loveDid all within this circle move.A narrow compass! and yet thereDwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:Give me but what this ribband bound,Take all the rest the Sun goes round.E. WALLER.
96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be;Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And 't shall do so for thee.Bid me to weep, and I will weep,While I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en Death, to die for thee.Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.R. HERRICK.
97.Love not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for a constant heart,—For these may fail, or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever:Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,And love me still, but know not why—So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever!ANON.
98.Not, Celia, that I juster amOr better than the rest;For I would change each hour, like them,Were not my heart at rest.But I am tied to very theeBy every thought I have;Thy face I only care to see,Thy heart I only crave.All that in woman is adoredIn thy dear self I find—For the whole sex can but affordThe handsome and the kind.Why then should I seek further store,And still make love anew?When change itself can give no more,'Tis easy to be true.SIR C. SEDLEY.
99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.When Love with unconfinéd wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fetter'd to her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses crown'd,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free—Fishes that tipple in the deepKnow no such liberty.When, linnet-like confinéd, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my King;When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage:If I have freedom in my loveAnd in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.COLONEL LOVELACE.
100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.If to be absent were to beAway from thee;Or that when I am goneYou or I were alone;Then, my Lucasta, might I cravePity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.Though seas and land betwixt us both,Our faith and troth,Like separated souls,All time and space controls:Above the highest sphere we meetUnseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.So then we do anticipateOur after-fate,And are alive i' the skies,If thus our lips and eyesCan speak like spirits unconfinedIn Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.COLONEL LOVELACE.
101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.Why so pale and wan, fond lover?Prythee, why so pale?Will, if looking well can't move her,Looking ill prevail?Prythee, why so pale?Why so dull and mute, young sinner?Prythee, why so mute?Will, when speaking well can't win her,Saying nothing do't?Prythee, why so mute?Quit, quit for shame! This will not move,This cannot take her;If of herself she will not love,Nothing can make her:The D——l take her!SIR J. SUCKLING.
102. A SUPPLICATION.Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.Hark! how the strings awake:And, though the moving hand approach not near,Themselves with awful fearA kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try;Now all thy charms apply;Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.Weak Lyre! thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak too wilt thou proveMy passion to remove;Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.Sleep, sleep again my Lyre!For thou canst never tell my humble taleIn sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.A. COWLEY.
103. THE MANLY HEART.Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or my cheeks make pale with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flowery meads in May—If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?Shall my foolish heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind;Or a well disposéd natureJoinéd with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her merit's value knownMake me quite forget my own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of Best;If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?Those that bear a noble mindWhere they want of riches find,Think what with them they would doWho without them dare to woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?G. WITHER.
104. MELANCHOLY.Hence, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your follyThere's naught in this life sweetIf men were wise to see't,But only melancholy,O sweetest Melancholy!Welcome, folded arms and fixéd eyes,A sigh that piercing mortifies,A look that's fasten'd to the ground,A tongue chain'd up without a sound!Fountain-heads and pathless groves,Places which pale passion loves!Moonlight walks, when all the fowlsAre warmly housed save bats and owls!A midnight bell, a parting groan!These are the sounds we feed upon;Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.J. FLETCHER.
105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and brightAs in that well-remember'd nightWhen first thy mystic braid was wove,And first my Agnes whisper'd love.Since then how often hast thou prestThe torrid zone of this wild breast,Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwellWith the first sin that peopled hell;A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!O if such clime thou canst endureYet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,What conquest o'er each erring thoughtOf that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!I had not wander'd far and wideWith such an angel for my guide;Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove meIf she had lived, and lived to love me.Not then this world's wild joys had beenTo me one savage hunting scene,My sole delight the headlong race,And frantic hurry of the chase;To start, pursue, and bring to bay,Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,Then—from the carcase turn away!Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:—Yes, God and man might now approve meIf thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!SIR W. SCOTT.
106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.O waly waly, up the bank,And waly waly down the brae,And waly waly yon burn-sideWhere I and my Love wont to gae!I leant my back unto an aik,I thought it was a trusty tree;But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,Sae my true Love did lichtly me.O waly waly, but love be bonnyA little time while it is new;But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,And fades awa' like morning dew.O wherefore should I busk my head?Or wherefore should I kame my hair?For my true Love has me forsook,And says he'll never loe me mair.Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,Since my true Love has forsaken me.Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blawAnd shake the green leaves aff the tree?O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?For of my life I am wearíe.'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow townWe were a comely sight to see;My Love was clad in the black velvét,And I mysell in cramasie.But had I wist, before I kist,That love had been sae ill to win,I had lockt my heart in a case of gowdAnd pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.And O! if my young babe were born,And set upon the nurse's knee,And I mysell were dead and gane,And the green grass growing over me!ANON.
107. FAIR HELEN.I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen liesOn fair Kirconnell lea.Curst be the heart that thought the thought,And curst the hand that fired the shot,When in my arms burd Helen dropt,And died to succour me!O think na but my heart was sair,When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!I laid her down wi' meikle care,On fair Kirconnell lea.As I went down the water side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;I lighted down my sword to draw,I hackéd him in pieces sma',I hackéd him in pieces sma',For her sake that died for me.O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I die.O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise,Says, "Haste, and come to me!"O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy restOn fair Kirconnell lea.I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,Since my Love died for me.ANON.
108. THE TWA CORBIES.As I was walking all alaneI heard twa corbies making a mane;The tane unto the t'other say,"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?""—In behint yon auld fail dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies there,But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair."His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet."Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek our nest when it grows bare."Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane;O'er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."ANON.
109. TO BLOSSOMS.Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here awhileTo blush and gently smile,And go at last.What, were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight;And so to bid good-night?'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite.But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their prideLike you, awhile, they glideInto the grave.R. HERRICK.
110. TO DAFFODILS.Fair Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soonAs yet the early-rising SunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a Spring;As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or any thing.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dewNe'er to be found again.R. HERRICK.
111. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.How vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their incessant labours seeCrown'd from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergéd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of Repose.Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.When we have run our passions' heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race:Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises are in one,To live in Paradise alone.How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!A. MARVELL.
112. L'ALLEGRO.Hence, loathéd Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bornIn Stygian cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!Find out some uncouth cellWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wingsAnd the night-raven sings;There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore:Or whether (as some sager sing)The frolic wind that breathes the springZephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-Maying—There, on beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses wash'd in dewFill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,So buxom, blithe, and debonair.Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest, and youthful jollity,Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smilesSuch as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides:—Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovéd pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flightAnd singing startle the dull nightFrom 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 sweetbriar, 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 hornCheerly rouse the slumbering morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Sometime walking, not unseen,By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gateWhere the great Sun begins his stateRobed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landscape round it measures;Russet lawns, and fallows gray,Where the nibbling flocks do stray;Mountains, on whose barren breastThe labouring clouds do often rest;Meadows trim with daisies pied;Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;Towers and battlements it seesBosom'd high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some Beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a cottage chimney smokesFrom betwixt two aged oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis, metAre at their savoury dinner setOf herbs, and other country messes,Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tann'd haycock in the mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequer'd shade;And young and old come forth to playOn 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 sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down the lubber fiend,And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first cock his matin rings.Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.Tower'd cities please us then,And the busy hum of men,Where throngs of knights and barons bold,In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,With store of ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf wit or arms, while both contendTo win her grace whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn saffron robe, with taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique pageantry;Such sights as youthful poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learned sock be on,Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,Warble his native wood-notes wild.And ever against eating cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airsMarried to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkéd sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed and giddy cunningThe melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber, on a bedOf heap'd Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regain'd Eurydice.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.J. MILTON.
113. IL PENSEROSO.Hence, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you besteadOr fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possessAs thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,Hail, divinest Melancholy!Whose saintly visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight,And therefore to our weaker viewO'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;Black, but such as in esteemPrince Memnon's sister might beseem.Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended:Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she; in Saturn's reignSuch mixture was not held a stain:Oft in glimmering bowers and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,Sober, steadfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grainFlowing with majestic train,And sable stole of cypres lawnOver thy decent shoulders drawn:Come, but keep thy wonted state,With even step, and musing gait,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There, held in holy passion still,Forget thyself to marble, tillWith a sad leaden downward castThou fix them on the earth as fast:And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ringAye round about Jove's altar sing:And add to these retired LeisureThat in trim gardens takes his pleasure:—But first, and chiefest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,The cherub Contemplatión;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 yokeGently o'er the accustom'd oak.—Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chauntress, oft the woods amongI woo, to hear thy even-song;And, missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moon,Riding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bow'd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising groundI hear the far-off curfeu sound,Over some wide-water'd shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or, if the air will not permit,Some still removéd place will fit,Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom;Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth,Or the bellman's drowsy charmTo bless the doors from nightly harm.Or let my lamp at midnight hourBe seen in some high lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphereThe spirit of Plato, to unfoldWhat worlds or what vast regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshy nook:And of those demons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn sceptr'd pall come sweeping byPresenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine;Or what (though rare) of later ageEnnobled hath the buskin'd stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as, warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheekAnd made Hell grant what Love did seek!Or call up him that left half-toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canacé to wifeThat own'd the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brassOn which the Tartar king did ride;And if aught else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sungOf tourneys, and of trophies hung,Of forests, and enchantments drear,Where more is meant than meets the ear.Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appear,Not trick'd and frounced as she was wontWith the Attic Boy to hunt,But kercheft in a comely cloudWhile rocking winds are piping loud,Or usher'd with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, goddess, bringTo archéd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,Was never heard the nymphs to dauntOr fright them from their hallow'd haunt.There in close covert by some brookWhere no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honey'd thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such consort as they keepEntice the dewy-feather'd Sleep.And let some strange mysterious dreamWave at his wings in aery streamOf lively portraiture display'd,Softly on my eyelids laid:And, as I wake, sweet music breatheAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by some spirit to mortals good,Or the unseen Genius of the wood.But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister's pale,And love the high-embowéd roof,With antique pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dightCasting a dim religious light:There let the pealing organ blowTo the full-voiced quire belowIn service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peaceful hermitage,The hairy gown and mossy cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every star that heaven doth show,And every herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo something like prophetic strain.These pleasures, Melancholy, give,And I with thee will choose to live.J. MILTON.