Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime 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 thy buskin'd stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes, as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down 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,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous 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 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 frounc'd as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchieft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still
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.
Of pine, or monumental oak,

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,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters 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-voic'd choir below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstacies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes!
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 show,
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.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT,
DYING OF A COUGH.*

I.

O FAIREST flower no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,

· Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted
Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry:
For he being amorous on that lovely dye

That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas, and then bewail'd his fatal bliss.

II.

For since grim Aquilo his charioteer
By boist'rous rape th' Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touch'd his deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away th' infamous blot
Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld,
Which 'mongst the wanton gods a foul reproach
was held.

III.

So, mounting up in icy-pearled car,

Through middle empire of the freezing air,
He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far;
There ended was his quest, there ceas'd his care:
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,

* Composed in 1625, the 17th year of Milton's age. This infant was the author's neice, a daughter of his sister Philips, and probably her first child.

But all unwares with his cold-kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair biding place.

IV.

Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilome did slay his dearly loved mate,
Young Hyacinth born on Eurotas' strand,
Young Hyacinth the pride of Spartan land;

But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack that so to change thee Winter had no power.

V.

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,
Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,

Hid from the world in a low delved tomb;
Could Heaven for pity thee so strictly doom?

Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that show'd thou wast divine.

VI.

Resolve me then, oh Soul most surely bless'd,
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear,)
Tell me, bright Spirit, where'er thou hoverest,
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in th' Elysian fields, (if such they were,)
O say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,

And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight?

VII.

Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof

Of shak'd Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which careful Jove in nature's true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late earth's sons besiege the wall

Of sheeny Heaven, and thou, some goddess fled, Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head? VIII.

Or wert thou that just maid who once before
Forsook the hated earth, O tell me sooth,
And cam'st again to visit us once more?

Or wert thou, [Mercy,] that sweet smiling Youth?
Or that crown'd matron sage white-robed Truth?
Or any other of that heavenly brood

Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?

IX.

Or wert thou of the golden-winged host,
Who having clad thyself in human weed,
To earth from thy prefixed seat didst post,
And after short abode fly back with speed,
As if to show what creatures Heaven doth breed;
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire

To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire?

X.

But oh! why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy heaven-lov'd innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe,
To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence,

To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart?
But thou canst best perform that office where thou

Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,
Her false imagin'd loss cease to lament,
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild;
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
And render him with patience what he lent;