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MILTON'S COMUS, LYCIDAS, AND

OTHER POEMS

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,°
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow,°
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy° psalms

5

ΙΟ

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Singing everlastingly :°

That we on Earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;"
As once we did,° till disproportioned sin

Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din 20
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.
O, may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial consort° us unite,

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To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!°

ON SHAKESPEARE 1630

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones The labour of an age in pilèd stones

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid

Under a star-ypointing° pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a livelong monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

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Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

L'ALLEGRO

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born° In Stygian cave forlorn

ΙΟ

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'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un

holy!

Find out some uncouth cell,

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Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,°

And the night-raven sings;°

There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks,
As 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 birth,

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With two sister Graces more,

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sager sing)

The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a-Maying,
There, on beds of violets blue,

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,°
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.°

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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles,
Nods and Becks and wreathèd Smiles,
Such 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 go,
On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee
The 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,

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25

330

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In unreproved pleasure free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From 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 sweet-briar 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 horn
Cheerly 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 gate°
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;°
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,

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