The intricate wards, and every bolt and | The womb of Nature, and perhaps her bar
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease Unfastens. On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus. She open'd, but to shut Excell'd her power; the gates wide open stood,
That with extended wings a banner'd host, Under spread ensigns marching, might pass through
With horse and chariots rank'd in loose
So wide they stood, and like a furnace mouth
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.
Before their eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the hoary deep; a dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension, where length, breadth, and height,
And time, and place are lost; where eldest Night
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions fierce,
Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring
Their embryon atoms; they around the flag
Of each his faction, in their several clans, Light arm'd or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow,
Swarm populous, unnumber'd as the
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil,
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
But all these in their pregnant causes mix'd
Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,
Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain His dark materials to create more worlds; Into this wild abyss the wary fiend Stood on the brink of Hell, and look'd a while, Pondering his voyage.
HENCE loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sighs unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low. brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora, playing, As he met her once a maying, There on beds of vi'lets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
Levied to side with warring winds, and So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Their lighter wings. To whom these
He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits, And by decision more embroils the fray, By which he reigns: next him high ar- biter
Chance governs all Into this wild abyss,
Haste, thee, Nymph, and bring with
And Laughter holding both his sides: Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee, The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tow'r in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
While the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The lab'ring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Tow'rs and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighb'ring eyes. Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their sav'ry dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses: And then in haste her bow'r she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday.
Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets ate; She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, And he by friar's lantern led; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shad'wy flail had thresh'd the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And, cropful, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep. Tow'red cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robes, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With masque and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream, On summer eves, by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native woodnotes wild.
And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the melting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of Harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
IL PENSEROSO.
HENCE vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly, without father bred! How little you bestead,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain,
Oft in glim'ring bow'rs and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast; And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, And hear the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing; And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; But first and chiefest with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fi'ry-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation;
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song, In his sweetest, saddest plight,
As the gay motes that people the Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
Or likest hov'ring dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy! Hail divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak; Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft the woods among, I woo to hear thy ev'ning song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green,
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue: To behold the wand'ring Moon,
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starr'd Ethiop queen, that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea- nymphs, and their pow'rs offended,
Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain).
Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the Heav'ns' wide pathless way And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit, Some still, removed place will fit,
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