Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/368

 JOHN MILTON

In her sweetest, saddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,

Gently o'rc th'accustom'd Okc;

Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical], most melancholy'

Thee Chaun tress oft the Woods among,

I woo to hear thy eevcn-Song,

And mibsmg thee, I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven Green,

To behold the wandrmg Moon,

Riding neer her highest noon,

Like one that had bin led astray

Through the Hcav'ns wide pathlcs way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft 011 a Plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,

Over som wide-water'd shoar,

Swinging slow with sullen roar;

Or if the Ayr 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 Belmans drousic charm,

To bless the dores from nightly harm:

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,

Be seen in som high lonely Towr,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear

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