Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; Tempered to the oaten flute Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel And old Damotas loved to hear our song. But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. "Had ye been there," for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise To scorn delights and live laborious days; And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : — "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Daily devours apace, and nothing said. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, And daffadillies fill their cups Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray: He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, EARLIER SONNETS, ETC., OF MILTON. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES (1645). A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon, And woven close, both matter, form, and style; Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile- Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheke, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward Greek. ON THE SAME. I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs When straight a barbarous noise environs me Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. For who loves that must first be wise and good: But from that mark how far they rove we see, |