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The Blue Poetry Book
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THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,In Ettrick’s vale, is sinking sweet;The westland wind is hush and still,The lake lies sleeping at my feet.Yet not the landscape to mine eyeBears those bright hues that once it bore;Though evening, with her richest dye,Flames o’er the hills of Ettrick’s shore.With listless look along the plain,I see Tweed’s silver current glide,And coldly mark the holy faneOf Melrose rise in ruin’d pride.The quiet lake, the balmy air,The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, —Are they still such as once they were?Or is the dreary change in me?Alas, the warp’d and broken board,How can it bear the painter’s dye!The harp of strain’d and tuneless chord,How to the minstrel’s skill reply!To aching eyes each landscape lowers,To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;And Araby’s or Eden’s bowersWere barren as this moorland hill.Sir W. Scott.THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL
There lived a wife at Usher’s Well,And a wealthy wife was she;She had three stout and stalwart sons,And sent them o’er the sea.They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely ane,When word came to the carline wife,That her three sons were gane.They had not been a week from her,A week but barely three,When word came to the carline wifeThat her sons she’d never see.‘I wish the wind may never cease,Nor fishes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me,In earthly flesh and blood!’It fell about the Martinmas,When nights are lang and mirk,The carline wife’s three sons came hameAnd their hats were o’ the birk.It neither grew in syke nor ditch,Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o’ ParadiseThat birk grew fair eneugh.‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!Bring water from the well!For a’ my house shall feast this night,Since my three sons are well!’And she has made to them a bed,She’s made it large and wide;And she’s ta’en her mantle her about;Sat down at the bed-side.Up then crew the red red cock,And up and crew the gray;The eldest to the youngest said,‘’Tis time we were away!’The cock he hadna craw’d but once,And clapp’d his wings at a’,Whan the youngest to the eldest said,‘Brother, we must awa’.’The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,The channerin’ worm doth chide:If we be miss’d out o’ our place,A sair pain we maun bide.‘Fare ye well, my mother dear!Farewell to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,That kindles my mother’s fire!’Unknown.ALLEN-A-DALE
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,The mere for his net, and the land for his game,The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!Allen-a-Dale was ne’er belted a knight,Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright:Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;The mother, she ask’d of his household and home:‘Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,My hall,’ quoth bold Allen, ‘shows gallanter still;’Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,And with all its bright spangles!’ said Allen-a-Dale.The father was steel, and the mother was stone;They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:He had laugh’d on the lass with his bonny black eye.And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!Sir W. Scott.THE BELEAGUERED CITY
I have read, in some old marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.White as a sea-fog, landward bound,The spectral camp was seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,The river flowed between.No other voice nor sound was there,No drum, nor sentry’s pace;The mist-like banners clasped the air,As clouds with clouds embrace.But, when the old cathedral bellProclaimed the morning prayer,The white pavilions rose and fellOn the alarmèd air.Down the broad valley, fast and farThe troubled army fled;Up rose the glorious morning star,The ghastly host was dead.I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,That strange and mystic scroll,That an army of phantoms vast and wanBeleaguer the human soul.Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream,In Fancy’s misty light,Gigantic shapes and shadows gleamPortentous through the night.Upon its midnight battle groundThe spectral camp is seen,And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,Flows the River of Life between.No other voice, nor sound is there,In the army of the grave;No other challenge breaks the air,But the rushing of Life’s wave.And, when the solemn and deep church bellEntreats the soul to pray,The midnight phantoms feel the spell,The shadows sweep away.Down the broad Vale of Tears afarThe spectral camp is fled;Faith shineth as a morning star,Our ghastly fears are dead.H. W. Longfellow.ALEXANDER’S FEAST OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC
’Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip’s warlike son —Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around,Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound(So should desert in arms be crown’d);The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty’s pride: —Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the braveNone but the braveNone but the brave deserves the fair!Timotheus placed on highAmid the tuneful quireWith flying fingers touch’d the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above —Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon’s fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia prest,And while he sought her snowy breast;Then round her slender waist he curl’d,And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.– The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!With ravish’d earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung —Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes!Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flush’d with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure:Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o’er again,And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he Heaven and Earth defiedChanged his hand and check’d his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted, at his utmost need,By those his former bounty fed;On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.– With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his alter’d soulThe various turns of Chance below;And now and then a sigh he stole,And tears began to flow.The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;’Twas but a kindred sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measuresSoon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sung, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble,Never ending, still beginning;Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee!– The many rend the skies with loud applause;So Love was crown’d, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:At length with love and wine at once opprestThe vanquish’d victor sunk upon her breast.Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunderAnd rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head:As awaked from the deadAnd amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rearHow they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly bandEach a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.– The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the wayTo light him to his prey,And like another Helen, fired another Troy!– Thus, long ago,Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyreCould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.At last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before.– Let old Timotheus yield the prizeOr both divide the crown;He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down!J. Dryden.THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and vallies, dales and fields,And woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs,An’ if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me, and be my love.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepar’d each day for thee and me.The shepherd-swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me, and be my love.C. Marlowe.THE FLOWERS O’ THE FOREST
I’ve heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking,Lasses a’ lilting, before dawn o’ day;But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;The Flowers o’ the Forest are a’ wede awae.At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing;Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae.In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching;The Flowers o’ the Forest are a’ wede awae.At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming‘Bout stacks, wi’ the lasses at bogles to play;But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie —The Flowers o’ the Forest are weded awae.Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;The Flowers o’ the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.We’ll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking;Women and bairns are heartless and wae:Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning —The Flowers o’ the Forest are a’ wede awae.E. Elliott.ULALUME
IThe skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crispèd and sere, —The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir, —It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.IIHere once, through an alley TitanicOf cypress, I roamed with my Soul, —Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll, —As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole, —That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.IIIOur talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, —Our memories were treacherous and sere;For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber —(Though once we had journeyed down here),Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.IVAnd now, as the night was senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn, —As the sun-dials hinted of morn,At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn, —Astartè’s bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.VAnd I said, ‘She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs, —She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the Lion:To point us the path to the skies —To the Lethean peace of the skies;Come up in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes;Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes.’VIBut Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said – ‘Sadly, this star I mistrust —Her pallor I strangely mistrust —Oh, hasten! – oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly! – let us fly! – for we must.’In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust —In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust —Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.VIII replied ‘This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light;Let us bathe in this crystalline light:Its sibyllic splendour is beamingWith hope and in beauty to-night: —See! – it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,And be sure it will lead us aright —We safely may trust to a gleamingThat cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.’VIIIThus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom —And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of a vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb —By the door of a legended tomb;And I said, ‘What is written, sweet sister,On the door of this legended tomb?’She replied: – ‘Ulalume – Ulalume —’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!’IXThen my heart it grew ashen and soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere,As the leaves that were withering and sere;And I cried – ‘It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last year,That I journeyed – I journeyed down here —That I brought a dread burden down here!On this night of all nights in the year;Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —This misty mid region of Weir —Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, —This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.’E. A. Poe.KUBLA KHAN
A VISION IN A DREAMIn Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e’er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seethingAs if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail;And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reach’d the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight ’twould win meThat with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them thereAnd all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dreadFor he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.S. T. COLERIDGE.L’ALLEGRO
Hence, loathèd Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bornIn Stygian cave forlorn’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!Find out some uncouth cellWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wingsAnd the night-raven sings;There under ebon shades, and low-brow’d rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In heaven yclept Euphrosynè,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore:Or whether (as some sager sing)The frolic wind that breathes the springZephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-Maying —There on beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses wash’d in dewFill’d her with thee, a daughter fair,So buxom, blithe, and debonair.Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest, and youthful jollity,Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smilesSuch 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 goOn the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with theeIn unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flightAnd singing startle the dull nightFrom his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrowThrough the sweetbriar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine:While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn-door,Stoutly struts his dames before:Oft listening how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering morn:From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Sometime walking, not unseen,By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gateWhere the great Sun begins his stateRobed 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 milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landscape round it measures;Russet lawns, and fallows gray,Where the nibbling flocks do stray;Mountains, on whose barren breastThe labouring clouds do often rest;Meadows trim with daisies pied,Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;Towers and battlements it seesBosom’d high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some Beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a cottage chimney smokesFrom betwixt two agèd oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,Are at their savoury dinner setOf herbs, and other country messesWhich the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tann’d haycock in the mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequer’d shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holy-day,Till the live-long daylight fail:Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How faery Mab the junkets eat;She was pinch’d, and pull’d, she said;And he, by friar’s lantern led;Tells how the drudging Goblin sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath thresh’d the cornThat ten day-labourers 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 matin rings.Thus done the tales, to bed they creep.By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.Tower’d cities please us thenAnd 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 eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf wit or arms, while both contendTo win her grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn saffron robe, with taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique pageantry:Such sights as youthful poets dreamOn 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 caresLap me in soft Lydian airsMarried to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkèd sweetness long drawn out;With wanton heed and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus’ self may heave his headFrom golden slumber, on a bedOf heap’d Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regain’d Eurydicè.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.J. MiltonIL PENSEROSO
Hence, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you besteadOr fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possessAs thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train.But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,Hail, divinest Melancholy!Whose saintly visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight,And therefore to our weaker viewO’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue;Black, but such as in esteemPrince Memnon’s sister might beseem,Or that starr’d Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty’s praise aboveThe sea nymphs, and their powers offendedYet thou art higher far descended:Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she; in Saturn’s reignSuch mixture was not held a stain:Oft in glimmering bowers and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida’s inmost grove,While yet there was no fear of Jove.Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,Sober, steadfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grainFlowing with majestic train,And sable stole of cypress lawnOver 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 QuietSpare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ringAye 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 bringHim that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,The cherub Contemplatiòn;And the mute Silence hist along,‘Less Philomel will deign a songIn her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,While Cynthia checks her dragon yokeGently o’er the accustom’d oak.– Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods amongI woo, to hear thy even-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry, smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering MoonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heaven’s wide pathless wayAnd oft, as if her head she bow’d,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising groundI hear the far-off curfeu soundOver some wide-water’d shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or, if the air will not permit,Some still removèd place will fit,Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom;Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth,Or the bellman’s drowsy charmTo bless the doors from nightly harm.Or let my lamp at midnight hourBe seen in some high lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the BearWith thrice-great Hermes, or unsphereThe spirit of Plato, to unfoldWhat worlds or what vast regions holdThe immortal mind, that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook.And of those demons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn scepter’d pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,Or the tale of Troy divine;Or what (though rare) of later ageEnnobled hath the buskin’d stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as, warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheekAnd made Hell grant what Love did seek,Or call up him that left half-toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canacè to wifeThat own’d the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brassOn which the Tartar king did ride:And if aught else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sungOf 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 civil-suited Morn appearNot trick’d and frounced as she was wontWith the Attic Boy to hunt,But kercheft in a comely cloudWhile rocking winds are piping loud,Or usher’d with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute-drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, Goddess bringTo archèd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe, with heavèd stroke,Was never heard the nymphs to dauntOr fright them from their hallow’d haunt.There in close covert by some brookWhere no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day’s garish eye,While the bee with honey’d thighThat at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such concert as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;And let some strange mysterious dreamWave at his wings in aery streamOf lively portraiture display’d,Softly on my eyelids laid:And, as I wake, sweet music breatheAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by some spirit to mortals good,Or the unseen Genius of the wood.But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister’s pale,And love the high-embowèd roof,With antique pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light:There let the pealing organ blowTo the full-voiced quire belowIn service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peaceful hermitage,The hairy gown and mossy cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every star that heaven doth show,And every herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo something like prophetic strain.These pleasures, Melancholy, give,And I with thee will choose to live.J. Milton.
