But firft, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;;
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her fweeteft, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;
Sweet bird that shunn'ft the noise of folly,
Moft mufical, moft melancholy !
Thee, chauntrefs, oft, the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led aftray
Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head the bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the belman's droufy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm :
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook :
And of thofe Demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
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 Algarfife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale carreer,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud.
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in clofe covert by fome 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 fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery
Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyster's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars mafly proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with fweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by fome noble perfons of her family, who appear on the fcene in paftoral habit, moving toward the feat of ftate, with this Song.
OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence defcry,
Too divine to be mistook:
To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our folemn fearch hath end.
* This poem is only part of an Entertainment, or Mask, as it is also intitled in Milton's Manuscript, the reft probably being of a different nature, or compofed by a different hand.
|