LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON.
[BEGUN SEPTEMBER 1791; FINISHED MARCH 1792,]
At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home: They come, at length, from Deva's western side, Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. Trust me, my joy is great, that thou shouldst be Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, Must seek again so soon his wonted home. I, well content, where Thames with influent tide My native city laves, meantime reside; Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impel To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, That, to the musing bard, all shade deny. 'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain, And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent Beneath my father's roof, be banishment, Then call me banish'd; I will ne'er refuse A name expressive of the lot I choose. I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore, Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more. He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise: For here I woo the muse with no control: And here my books-my life--absorb me whole.
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep,
The winding theatre's majestic sweep;
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
Suitor or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws.
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
And artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
What love is, known not, yet unknowing love.
Or if impassion'd Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief,
At times, e'en bitter tears! yield sweet relief.
As when from bliss untasted torn away,
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day,
Or when the ghost sent back from shades below,
Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe.
When Troy or Argos, the dire scene affords,
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.
Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,
I dwell; but when spring calls me forth to roam,
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm, that never sun prevades.
Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire,
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
Out-sparkling ev'ry star that gilds the skies.
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!
Bright locks, Love's golden snare! these falling low,
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r
Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower!
Yield, heroines, yield, and he who shared th' embrace
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!
Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom
Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome,
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains
Redundant, and still live in classic strains!
To British damsels beauty's palm is due,
Aliens to follow them is fame for you.
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,
Whose tow'ring front the circling realms commands,
Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
The virgin multitude that daily meets,
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
Out-numbers all her train of starry fires,
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore,
But lest the sightless boy enforce my stay,
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc'ry of Cicæan art,
And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools
To face one more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
Yet such, as prove thy friend's remembrance true!
ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE
Composed by Milton, in the 17th year of his age.
Thee, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear,
Minerva's flock long time was wont t' obey,
Although thyself an herald, famous here,
The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.
He calls on all alike, nor even deigns
To spare the office, that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour in ancient time,
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or Æson-like to know a second prime,
Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.
Commission'd to convene, with hasty call,
The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand! So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command! And so Eurybates, when he address'd
To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest.
Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws
And watchful eyes, run through the realms below,
Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!
Too often to the muse not less a foe!
Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim
Pierce useless drones, earth's burden, and its shame!
Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'ry eye,
All ye disciples of the muses, weep!
Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye,
Around his bier, lament his endless sleep!
And let complaining elegy rehearse,
In ev'ry school, her sweetest, saddest verse.
ON THE DEATH OF THE Bishop of
Composed in the Author's 17th year.
Silent I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making, in thought, the public woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast
Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!
How death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I next deplored the famed paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs,
But thee far most I mourned, regretted most,
Wint❜ons chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast;
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:
Death, next in pow'r to him who rules the dead!
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field;
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine;
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will
That all the winged nations, even those
Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfined!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
Why take delight, with darts, that never roam
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home?”
While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood
Now newly ris'n above the western flood,
And Phoebus from his morning-goal again
Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main.
I wish'd repose, and on my couch reclined
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd:
When-Oh for words to paint what I beheld !
I seem'd to wander in a spacious field,
Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light,
Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height;
Flow'rs over all the field, of ev'ry hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.
Nor Chloris, with whom am'rous Zephyrs play,
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay,
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold;
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flow'rs,
With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs.
Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.
While I, that splendor, and the mingled shade
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd survey'd,
At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace,
The seer of Winton stood before my face.
His snowy vesture's hem descending low,
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.
Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound
Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around.
Attendant angels clap their starry wings,
The trumpet shakes the sky, all æther rings,
Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast,
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest:
"Ascend, my son! thy father's kingdom share!
My son henceforth be freed from ev'ry care!"
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