These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

51. _Il Penseroso._

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 possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou G.o.ddess 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 starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The Sea-Nymphs', and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended.

Thee bright-haired 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, steadfast, 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.ds doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye 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 the accustomed oak.

Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chantress, 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 wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that has been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-watered sh.o.r.e, Swinging slow with sullen 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 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 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 forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook; And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or underground, 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 the tale of Troy divine, Or what, though rare, of later age Enn.o.bled hath the buskined stage.

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 h.e.l.l grant what love did seek; Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and gla.s.s; And of the wondrous horse of bra.s.s, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if ought else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys 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 appear, Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower 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, G.o.ddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed 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 honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.

And let some strange, mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in aery stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid; And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the 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 antic pillars ma.s.sy-proof And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In 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 age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit, and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every 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.

52. _Lycidas._

_In this_ Monody _the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his pa.s.sage from Chester, on the Irish Sea, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height._

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.

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compel 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 rime.

He must not float upon his watery 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 destined urn, And as he pa.s.ses turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud-- For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But oh! 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 thyme and 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 weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the s.h.a.ggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye been there ... for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 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 sh.o.r.e?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise --That last infirmity of n.o.ble mind-- 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 the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,'

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears.

'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering 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 p.r.o.nounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.'

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood.

But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea, That came in Neptune's plea.

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings, That blows from off each beaked promontory.

They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in the eclipse, and rigged 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 flower inscribed with woe.

'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?'

Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two ma.s.sy 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 spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!

Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

What recks 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, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Beside 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 smite 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 flowerets of a thousand hues.

Ye valleys 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-enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies.

For so, to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, Ay me! whilst thee the sh.o.r.es and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleepest by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks towards 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 more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, 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 sh.o.r.e, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still Morn went out with sandals gray; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropped into the western bay.

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

53. _On His Blindness._

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth G.o.d exact day-labour, light denied?'

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: 'G.o.d doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly. Thousands, at his bidding, speed And post o'er land and ocean, without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'

_Keightley's Text._

LADY NAIRNE.

54. _The Land o' the Leal._

I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw when it's thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa'