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ELEGY III.

ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP

OF WINCHESTER.

Compofed by Milton in the 17th Year of his Age.

ILENT I fat, dejected, and alone,

Making in thought the public woes my

own,

When first arose the image in my breaft
Of England's fuffering by that fcourge, the Peft!
How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand,
Entering the lordlieft mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,
And level'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I next deplored the famed paternal pair,
Too foon to afhes turn'd and empty air!
The heroes next, whom fnatch'd into the skies
All Belgia faw, and follow'd with her fighs;
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said!
"Death, next in power to him who rules the dead!
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and every 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, muft wither at thy will;

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That all the winged nations, even those
Whofe heaven-directed flight the future fhows,
And all the beafts that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with powers fo unconfined!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind ?
Why take delight, with darts that never roam,
To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?"
While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,
Now newly rifen 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 reft, to night and fleep refign'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 fun-rife on the mountain height;
Flowers over all the field, of every hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.
Nor Chloris, with whom amorous zephyrs play,
E'er drefs'd Alcinous' garden half fo gay.
A filver current, like the Tagus, roll'd
O'er golden fands, but fands of purer gold;
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers,
With airs awaken'd under rofy bowers.
Such, poets feign, irradiate all o'er

The fun's abode on India's utmost shore.

While I that fplendour, and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd furvey'd, At once, with looks that beam'd celeftial grace, The feer of Winton ftood before my face.

His snowy vesture's hem descending low
His golden fandals swept, and pure as fnow
New fallen fhone the mitre on his brow.
Where'er he trod, a tremulous fweet found
Of gladness shook the flowery scene around:
Attendant angels clap their starry wings,
The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings;
Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast,
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest:

Ascend, my fon! thy father's kingdom share! My fon! henceforth be freed from every care! So fpake the voice, and at its tender close With pfaltery's found the angelic band arose; Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day, The vifionary bliss pass'd all away.

I mourn'd my banish'd fleep with fond concern; Frequent to me may dreams like this return!

ELEGY IV.

TO HIS TUTOR THOMAS YOUNG,
Chaplain to the English Factory at Hamburgh.

Written in the Author's Eighteenth Year.

ENCE, my epiftle-skim the deep-fly

o'er

Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic

fhore!

Hafte-left a friend fhould grieve for thy delay,

And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy way!
I will myself invoke the king who binds
In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds,
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
Of azure gods, to speed thee fafe along.
But rather, to enfure thy happier haste,
Afcend Medea's chariot, if thou mayft;
Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore
Defcended, welcome on the Scythian fhore.
The fands that line the German coaft defcried,
To opulent Hamburga turn afide!

So call'd, if legendary fame be true,

From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian flew!
There lives, deep-learn'd and primitively just,
A faithful fteward of his Chriftian truft,
My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,
That now is forced to want its better part!
What mountains now, and feas, alas how wide!
From me this other, dearer felf divide,
Dear as the fage renown'd for moral truth.
To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!
Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's fon,
His pupil, who difdain'd the world he won!
Nor fo did Chiron, or fo Phoenix fhine

In

young Achilles'

eyes, as he in mine.

First led by him through fweet Aonian fhade,
Each facred haunt of Pindus I furvey'd ;
And favour'd by the mufe, whom I implored,
Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd.
But thrice the fun's refplendent chariot roll'd
To Aries, has new-tinged his fleece with gold,
And Chloris twice has drefs'd the meadows gay,

And twice has fummer parch'd their bloom away,
Since laft delighted on his looks I hung,

Or my ear drank the music of his tongue :
Fly, therefore, and furpass the tempeft's speed;
Aware thyself that there is urgent need!
Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see
Befide his spouse, his infants on his knee;
Or turning, page by page, with studious look,
Some bulky father, or God's holy book;
Or ministering (which is his weightiest care)
To Chrift's affembled flock their heavenly fare.
Give him, whatever his employment be,
Such gratulation as he claims from me!
And, with a downcaft eye, and carriage meek,
Addreffing him, forget not thus to speak :

"If compafs'd round with arms thou canst attend
To verfe, verfe greets thee from a distant friend.
Long due, and late, I left the English shore;
But make me welcome for that cause the more!
Such from Ulyffes, his chafte wife to cheer,
The flow epiftle came, though late, fincere.
But wherefore this? why palliate I the deed
For which the culprit's felf could hardly plead?
Self-charged, and felf-condemn'd, his proper part
He feels neglected, with an aching heart;
But thou forgive delinquents, who confefs,
And pray forgiveness, merit anger lefs;
From timid foes the lion turns away,
Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey,
Even pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare,
Won by foft influence of a fuppliant prayer;
And Heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands

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