Page:The Complete Poetical Works of John Milton.djvu/71

 IL PENSEROSO

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��Like one that had been led astray

Through the heaven's wide pathless way,

And oft, as if her head she bowed, 71

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off curfew sound,

Over some wide-watered 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, 80

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.

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,

Be seen in some high lonely tower,

Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,

With thrice-great Hermes, or uusphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds or what vast regions hold 90

The immortal mind that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook;

And of those Daemons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or underground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With planet or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

In sceptred pall come sweeping by,

Presenting Thebs, or Pelops' line,

Or the tale of Troy divine, 100

Or what (though rare) of later age

Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power

Might raise Mtisseus from his bower;

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as, w rbled 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, no

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That owned 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 inchantments drear, 119

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,

��Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchieft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or ushered with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves,

With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130

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 hallowed haunt.

There, in close covert, by some brook,

Where no profaner eye may look, 140

Hide me from Day's garish eye,

While the bee with honeyed thigh,

That at her flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.

And let some strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings, in airy stream

Of lively portraiture displayed,

Softly on my eyelids laid. 150

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 cloister's pale,

And love the high embowed roof,

With antick pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim religious light. 160

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full voiced Quire below,

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

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, 170

Of every star that Heaven doth shew,

And every hearb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

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