no manner of ill, because she means none; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives ‹ be, and all her ca. e is, she may die in the spring-time, to have store cí Towers stuck upon her winding-sheet. CHAPTER XI. JOHN MILTON. 1608-1674. (Manual, p. 187-205.) 121. FROM THE HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manager lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize; It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake nut to the arméd throng, And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forget to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer, that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook; Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringéd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasures loath to lose, With thousand echoes stil! prolongs each heavenly close l'he oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no niore divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathéd spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent: With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 'The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, mourr In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; Ir. urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted ɛeat. But see, the Virgin blessed Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teeméd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 122. FROM COMUS. SONG. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; That likest thy Narcissus are? O if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere! And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. Enter Comus. Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of darkness, till it smiled! I have oft heard Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; And chid her barking waves into attention, And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder! Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan: by blest song To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 123. FROM LYCIDAS. 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 shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Had ye been there for what could that have done? Whom universal Nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn delights, and live laborious days; Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." |