My Muse with Angels did divide to sing; In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human weight! III. He, sovereign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies; Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. IV. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; Of lute or viol still, more apt for mournful things. ས. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief; That Heaven and Earth are colour'd with my wo; P The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. VI. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. VII. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, VIII. Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing, Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud This subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. ON TIME.* FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race; Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain! For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone When once our heavenly guided souls shall climb, Then, all this earthly grossness quit, Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time! UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Powers, and winged warriors bright, * In these poems where no date is prefixed, and no circumstances direct us to ascertain the time when they were composed, we follow the order of Milton's own editions. And before this copy of verses it appears, from the manuscript, that the post had written, To be set on a clock-case. Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just! Were lost in death, till he, that dwelt above And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but O, ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. BLESS'D pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee, Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, Singing everlastingly: That we on earth, with undiscording voice, In first obedience, and their state of good. And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long, To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light! AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER.* THIS rich marble doth inter The honour'd wife of Winchester, Added to her noble birth, More than she could own from earth. To house with darkness, and with death. *This Lady was Jane, daughter of Thomas Lord Visc. Savage of Rock-Savage, Cheshire, who by marriage became the heir of Lord Darcy, Earl of Rivers; and was the wife of John Marquis of Winchester, and the mother of Charles first duke of Bolton. She died in childbed of a second son in the 23d year of her age; and Milton made these verses at Cambridge, as appears by the sequel. P* |