John Milton

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield; and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night.

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the 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.

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear

Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.

When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 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.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.

Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.

I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heav'n's wide pathless way,

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

And join with thee, calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.

Forget thyself to marble.

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

The gay motes that people the sunbeams.

Hence vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred!

Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee, I mean to live.