SENTIMENTAL, LYRICAL, AND LUDICROUS.
ODES, Sonnets, Classical Songs, Ancient and Modern Ballads, Comic Tales, Epigrams, Epitaphs, various amusing little Poems, Prologues, and Epilogues.
§1. L'ALLEGRO. MILTON. HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell, [wings, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous And the night-raven sings; There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sages 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 wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair; Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed 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 the honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing, startle the dull night, From his watch-tow'r in the skies, Till the dapple dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-brier 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 listning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb`ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe,
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures; Russet lawns, and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The lab'ring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Tow'rs and battlements it sees, Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighb'ring eyes. Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her bow'r she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holy-day, Till the live-long day-light fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said, And by the fryer's lanthorn led; Tells how the drudging gobling sweat, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn, That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his mattin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. By whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep. Tow'red cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend: There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out. With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running! Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
§ 2. IL PENSEROSO. MILTON. HENCE, vain deluding joys,
The brood of folly, without father bred, How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possest, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight; And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem; Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs and their powers offended i Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove, Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of Cyprus lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Ay round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. But first and chiefest with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song, And, missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfen sound Over some wide water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will sit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm : Or let my lamp at midnight hour, Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, Where I may 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 forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook: And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line, Or else the tale of Troy divine, Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage
But, O sad Virgin, that thy pow'r Might raise Museus from his bow'r, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 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 Cambusean bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canacé to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till silver-suited mora appear,
Not trickt and frounc'd as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a show'r still When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flow'ry work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep; And let some strange, mysterious dream Wave at his wings an airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd Softly on my eye-lids laid."
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim, religious light. There let the pealing org in blow, To the full-voic'd quire below, In service high, and antheais clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstacies,
And bring all ideaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of ev'ry star that heaven doth shew, And ev'ry herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
§ 3. LYCIDAS. MILTON.
ET once more, Oye Laurels, and once more,
Ye Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Aud with fore'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year; Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due, For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime. He must not float upon his wat'ry bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn; And, as she passes, turn,
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? [deep 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 wisard stream: Ah me, I fondly dream! [done! Had ye been there-for what could that hare What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bat, The Muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankle's Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirinity of noble minds) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glist'ring foil,
Set off to the world; nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. And perfect witness of all-judging Jove: As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'dBut now my oat proceeds, Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Tow'rd heaven's descent had slop'd his west'ring wheel.
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with ve That strain I heard was of a higher mood: [reeds,
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damætis lov'd to hear our song.
But, O the heavy change! now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thy meand the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays, As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weaning herds that graze; Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon wind, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentleswain And question'd ev'ry gust of rugged winds That blows from off each beaked promontory; They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippodates their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire! went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flow'r inscrib'd with wee Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge! Last came, and last did go, 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 spar'd for thee, yong Enow
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reck'ning make, Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold (least A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What wrecks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they Rotinwardly, and foul contagion spread : [draw, Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said, But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smites no more. Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye vallies low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied show'rs, And purple all the ground with vernal flow'rs, Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow- toe, and pale jessamine, The white-pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flow'r that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid' lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ah me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead; [more, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, [ore And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the
Where other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompence, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. [rills,
This sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and While the still morn went out with sandals grey, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self
Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude,
Where with her best nurse, Contemplation, She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon.
§ 5. Meditation and Beauty. MILTON, MUS USING Meditation most affects The pensive secrecy of desert cell, Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, And sits as safe as in a senate-house;
For who would rob a hermit of his weeds,
His few books, or his beads, or maple dish, Or do his grey hairs any violence? But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Of dragon watch, with uninchanted eve, To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit
From the rash hand of bold incontinence.
$6. Chastity. MILTON. SHE that has that, is clad in complete steel,
And like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, Where through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage, fierce bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity: Yea there, where very desolation dwells, By grots, and caverns shagg'd with horrid shades, She may pass on with unblench'd majesty Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.
« ZurückWeiter » |