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MILTON.

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Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jeal-
ous wings,

And the night-raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd
rocks

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'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
sights unholy,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landskip round it measures;
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
10 Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.
Towers and battlements it sees

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept (1) 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)

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Bosom'd high in tufted trees,

Where perhaps some beauty lies,

The cynosure (1) of neighbouring eyes.

The frolic wind, that breathes the spring, Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,

Zephyr with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a maying.

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 thee 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-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, 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:

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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 bower she leaves
25 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 (2) 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.

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Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Sometimes walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; (2)
While the ploughman near at hand,

(1) Called. (2) Dressed.

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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How fairy Mab the junkets (3) eat,
She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said,
And he, by friars' lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat,
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail had thrash'd the corn,
That ten day-labourers could not end; 105
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 lull'd asleep.
Tower'd cities please us then,

55 And the busy hum of men,

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Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds (4) of peace, high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes

(1) Pole-star. (2) A three-stringed fiddle. (3) Sweetmeats. (4) Garments.

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 masque 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

To solitary Saturn bore;

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His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
120 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,
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
125 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 cypress 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

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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 slumbers on a bed
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, 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.

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Aye round about Jove's altar sing:

And add to these retired Leisure,

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That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: 50
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,

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In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.

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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 wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that hath been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way; 70
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plot of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
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.

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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

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What worlds, or what vast regions, hold 90
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 the tale of Troy divine;

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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 axe, 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 flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,

100 With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But O, sad Virgin, that thy power,
Might raise Musæus 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!
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

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105 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 antique pillars, massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voic'd quire below;
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstacies,

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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. 120
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited morn appear;
Not trick'd and frounc'd (1) as she

wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still

was

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 (1)
125 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,
With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 And I with thee will choose to live.

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves

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Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre

bring, And with a general shout proclaim'd him king;

Those very Jews, who at their very best Their humour more than loyalty exprest, Now wonder'd why so long they had obey'd An idol monarch, which their hands had made;

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Thought they might ruin him they could create,

Or melt him to that golden calf, a state. But these were random bolts: no form'd design, Nor interest, made the factious crowd to join:

The sober part of Israel, free from stain, 120 Well knew the value of a peaceful reign: Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle And, looking backward with a wise affright, soft desire. Saw seams of wounds dishonest to the sight;

At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,

Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 125 And added length to solemn sounds. With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

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In contemplation of whose ugly scars,
They curst the memory of civil wars.
The moderate sort of men thus qualified,
Inclined the balance to the better side;
And David's mildness managed it so well,
The bad found no occasion to rebel.
But when to sin our biass'd nature leans,
The careful devil is still a hand with means;
And providently pimps for ill desires:
The good old cause revived a plot re-
quires.

Plots true or false are necessary things,
To raise up commonwealths, and ruin kings.
(Absalom and Achitophel.)

LONDON.

London, thou great emporium of our isle, O thou too-bounteous, thou too-fruitful Nile!

How shall I praise or curse to thy desert? Or separate thy sound from thy corrupted part?

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