And sworded seraphim, JOHN MILTON. Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, Such music as 't is said But when of old the sons of morning While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, For, if such holy song Time will run back, and fetch the age And speckled Vanity And leprous Sin will melt from earthly And Hell itself will pass away, Yea, Truth and Justice then Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories Mercy will sit between, With radiant feet the tissued clouds And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. But wisest Fate says no, The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, 37 So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang The aged earth aghast, Shall from the surface to the centre When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss, But now begins; for, from this happy The old dragon, underground, Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb; Runs through the archéd roof in words 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, A voice of weeping heard and loud The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures mourn with midnight plaint. In 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 seat. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim With that twice-battered God of Pales- And moonéd Ashtaroth, The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn; And sullen Moloch, fled, His burning idol all of blackest hue: In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teeméd star Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. SONNETS. ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY THREE. In dismal dance about the furnace blue: How soon hath Time, the subtle thief Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. The sable-stoléd sorcerers bear his wor-Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, shipped ark. He feels from Judah's land The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew. So, when the sun in bed, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, 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 THOMAS ELWOOD. SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 39 My true account, lest he returning | Christ leads me through no darker rooms Than he went through before; He that into God's kingdom comes Must enter by his door. Come, Lord, when grace has made me meet Thy blessed face to see; Then shall I end my sad complaints, And join with the triumphant saints My knowledge of that life is small, But 't is enough that Christ knows all, Contentment cannot smart; stoics we | Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body bind, My king alone can captivate my mind. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 41 Books should, not business, entertain the light, LIBERTY. And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the WHERE honor or where conscience does night. My house a cottage more My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space; not bind, No other law shall shackle me; Slave to myself I will not be : Who by resolves and vows engaged does stand For days that yet belong to Fate, estate Before it falls into his hand. For he that runs it well twice runs his The bondman of the cloister so race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, this happy state, I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived today. All that he does receive does always owe; And still as time comes in, it goes away, Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. Unhappy slave! and pupil to a bell! Which his hour's work, as well as hours, does tell! Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing knell. |