Page:The Complete Poetical Works of John Milton.djvu/89

 COMUS

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��The ATTENDANT SPIRIT, habited like a shepherd.

That hallo I should know. What are you ? speak. 490

Come not too near; you fall on iron stakes

else. Spir. What voice is that ? my young

Lord ? speak again. Sec. Bro. O brother, 'tis my father's

Shepherd, sure.

Eld. Bro. Thyrsis ! whose artful strains have oft delayed

The huddling brook to hear his madrigal,

And sweetened every musk -rose of the dale.

How camest thou here, good swain ? Hath any ram

Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam,

Or straggling wether the pent flock for- sook ?

How couldst thou find this dark seques- tered nook ? 500 Spir. O my loved master's heir, and his next joy,

I came not here on such a trivial toy

As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth

Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealth

That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought

To this my erra-nd, and the care it brought.

But, oh ! my virgin Lady, where is she ?

How chance she is not in your company ? Eld. Bro. To tell thee sadly, Shepherd, without blame

Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 510 Spir. Ay me unhappy ! then my fears

are true. Eld. Bro. What fears, good Thyrsis ?

Prithee briefly shew. Spir. I '11 tell ye. 'T is not vain or fab- ulous

(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance)

What the sage poets, taught by the hea- venly Muse,

Storied of old in high immortal verse

Of dire Chimeras and inchanted Isles,

And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell;

For such there be, but unbelief is blind. Within the navel of this hideous wood, 520

Immured in cypress shades, a Sorcerer dwells,

Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus,

Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries,

��And here to every thirsty wanderer By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, With many murmurs mixed, whose pleas- ing poison The visage quite transforms of him that

drinks,

And the inglorious likeness of a beast Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage Charactered in the face. This have I learnt 530

Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly

crofts That brow this bottom glade; whence night

by night He and his monstrous rout are heard to

howl

Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey, Doing abhorred rites to Hecate In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. Yet have they many baits and guileful

spells

To inveigle and invite the unwary sense Of them that pass uuweetiug by the way. This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 540

Had ta'en their supper on the savoury herb Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in

fold,

I sat me down to watch upon a bank With ivy canopied, and interwove With flaunting honeysuckle, and began, Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy, To meditate my rural minstrelsy, Till fancy had her fill. But ere a close The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, And filled the air with barbarous disso- nance ; 550 At which I ceased, and listened them a

while,

Till an unusual stop of sudden silence Gave respite to the drowsy-flighted steeds That draw the litter of close - curtained

Sleep.

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose like a steam of rich distilled per- fumes,

And stole upon the air, that even Silence Was took ere she was ware, and wished

she might

Deny her nature, and be never more, Still to be so displaced. I was all ear, 560 And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of Death. But, oh ! ere

long Too well I did perceive it was the voice

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