In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove, or green,

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Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest;

Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark

The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt

ark.

He feels from Juda's land

The dreaded infant's hand;

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

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Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd

crew.

So when the sun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave;

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to th' infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;

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And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moonloved maze.

But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is our tedious song should here have

ending:

Heaven's youngest-teeméd star

Hath fixed her polish'd car,

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp

attending:

And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harness'd angels 'sit in order

serviceable.

1629. 1645.

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244

John Milton.

ON TIME

FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,

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Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever

shine

About the supreme Throne

Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this earthy grossness quit,

Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and

thee O Time.

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1645.

John Milton.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits thereon

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted angel trumpets blow;
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

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With those just Spirits that wear victorious
palms,

Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly;

That we on Earth, with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh

din

Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd.

In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O may we soon again renew that Song,

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And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of

THE forward youth that would appear

Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

4

'T is time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:

(For 't is all one to courage high,

The emulous, or enemy;

And with such, to enclose

Is more than to oppose;)

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;

And Cæsar's head at last

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16

20

Did through his laurels blast.

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T is madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven's flame;

And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,

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