John Milton

Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.

Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.

Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength.

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.

And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade. And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday.

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and balements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

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 list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn.

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free.

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go. On the light fantastic toe.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathèd smiles.

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim.

From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.

Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around. The idle spear and shield were high up hung.

It was the winter wild While the Heav'n-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should …

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