Light

Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird 

Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid ...

 

 

 by John Milton

 

Light

 

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, 

Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam 

May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, 

And never but in unapproached light 

Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 

Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, 

Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, 

Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice 

Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest 

The rising world of waters dark and deep, 

Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, 

Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd 

In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight 

Through utter and through middle darkness borne 

With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre 

I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, 

Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down 

The dark descent, and up to reascend, 

Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, 

And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou 

Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain 

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; 

So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, 

Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more 

Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 

Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief 

Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath 

That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, 

Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget 

Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, 

So were I equal'd with them in renown. 

Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, 

And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move 

Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird 

Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid 

Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year 

Seasons return, but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 

But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark 

Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men 

Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair 

Presented with a Universal blanc 

Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, 

And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. 

So much the rather thou Celestial light 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 

Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence 

Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 

Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

 

 

 

 

 

From 'Arcades' 

 

 

 

 

 

O'RE the smooth enameld green 

   Where no print of step hath been, 

   Follow me as I sing, 

   And touch the warbled string. 

Under the shady roof 

Of branching Elm Star-proof, 

   Follow me, 

I will bring you where she sits 

Clad in splendor as befits 

   Her deity. 

Such a rural Queen 

All Arcadia hath not seen. 

 

313. From 'Comus' 

i 

 

THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold, 

Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, 

And the gilded Car of Day, 

His glowing Axle doth allay 

In the steep Atlantick stream, 

And the slope Sun his upward beam 

Shoots against the dusky Pole, 

Pacing toward the other gole 

Of his Chamber in the East. 

Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, 

Midnight shout, and revelry, 

Tipsie dance, and Jollity. 

Braid your Locks with rosie Twine 

Dropping odours, dropping Wine. 

Rigor now is gon to bed, 

And Advice with scrupulous head, 

Strict Age, and sowre Severity, 

With their grave Saws in slumber ly. 

We that are of purer fire 

Imitate the Starry Quire, 

Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, 

Lead in swift round the Months and Years. 

The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove 

Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, 

And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, 

Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; 

By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, 

The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, 

Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: 

What hath night to do with sleep? 

Night hath better sweets to prove, 

Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.... 

Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, 

In a light fantastick round. 

 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

 

314. From' Comus' 

ii. Echo 

 

SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen 

   Within thy airy shell 

   By slow Meander's margent green, 

   And in the violet imbroider'd vale 

   Where the love-lorn Nightingale 

   Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well. 

   Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair 

   That likest thy Narcissus are? 

   O if thou have 

   Hid them in som flowry Cave, 

   Tell me but where 

   Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear! 

   So maist thou be translated to the skies, 

And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies! 

 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

 

315. From' Comus' 

iii. Sabrina 

 

The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair 

   Listen where thou art sitting 

Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, 

   In twisted braids of Lillies knitting 

The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, 

   Listen for dear honour's sake, 

   Goddess of the silver lake, 

   Listen and save! 

 

Listen and appear to us, 

In name of great Oceanus, 

By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, 

And Tethys grave majestick pace, 

By hoary Nereus wrincled look, 

And the Carpathian wisards hook, 

By scaly Tritons winding shell, 

And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, 

By Leucothea's lovely hands, 

And her son that rules the strands, 

By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet, 

And the Songs of Sirens sweet, 

By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 

And fair Ligea's golden comb, 

Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks 

Sleeking her soft alluring locks, 

By all the Nymphs that nightly dance 

Upon thy streams with wily glance, 

Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head 

From thy coral-pav'n bed, 

And bridle in thy headlong wave, 

Till thou our summons answered have. 

   Listen and save! 

 

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, 

Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, 

   My sliding Chariot stayes, 

Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen 

Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green 

   That in the channell strayes, 

Whilst from off the waters fleet 

Thus I set my printless feet 

O're the Cowslips Velvet head, 

   That bends not as I tread, 

Gentle swain at thy request 

   I am here. 

 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

 

316. From 'Comus' 

iv 

 

The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, 

And those happy climes that ly 

Where day never shuts his eye, 

Up in the broad fields of the sky: 

There I suck the liquid ayr 

All amidst the Gardens fair 

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 

That sing about the golden tree: 

Along the crisped shades and bowres 

Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, 

The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, 

Thither all their bounties bring, 

That there eternal Summer dwels, 

And West winds, with musky wing 

About the cedar'n alleys fling 

Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels. 

Iris there with humid bow, 

Waters the odorous banks that blow 

Flowers of more mingled hew 

Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, 

And drenches with Elysian dew 

(List mortals, if your ears be true) 

Beds of Hyacinth, and roses 

Where young Adonis oft reposes, 

Waxing well of his deep wound 

In slumber soft, and on the ground 

Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen; 

But far above in spangled sheen 

Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, 

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't 

After her wandring labours long, 

Till free consent the gods among 

Make her his eternal Bride, 

And from her fair unspotted side 

Two blissful twins are to be born, 

Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. 

   But now my task is smoothly don, 

I can fly, or I can run 

Quickly to the green earths end, 

Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, 

And from thence can soar as soon 

To the corners of the Moon. 

   Mortals that would follow me, 

Love vertue, she alone is free. 

She can teach ye how to clime 

Higher then the Spheary chime; 

Or if Vertue feeble were, 

Heav'n it self would stoop to her. 

 

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more 

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, 

I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, 

And with forc'd fingers rude, 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 

Compels me to disturb your season due: 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 

He must not flote upon his watry bear 

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 

Without the meed of som melodious tear. 

   Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 

Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, 

So may som gentle Muse 

With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, 

And as he passes turn, 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. 

For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, 

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. 

   Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd 

Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, 

We drove a field, and both together heard 

What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 

Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 

Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright 

Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 

Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, 

Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; 

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, 

From the glad sound would not be absent long, 

And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. 

   But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, 

Now thou art gon, and never must return! 

Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, 

With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, 

And all their echoes mourn. 

The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, 

Shall now no more be seen, 

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. 

As killing as the Canker to the Rose, 

Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, 

Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, 

When first the White thorn blows; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. 

   Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep 

Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep, 

Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: 

Ay me, I fondly dream! 

Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? 

What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, 

The Muse her self, for her inchanting son 

Whom Universal nature did lament, 

When by the rout that made the hideous roar, 

His goary visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. 

   Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 

To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, 

And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, 

Were it not better don as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That last infirmity of Noble mind) 

To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; 

But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 

Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, 

And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, 

Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; 

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 

But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, 

And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. 

   O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, 

That strain I heard was of a higher mood: 

But now my Oate proceeds, 

And listens to the Herald of the Sea 

That came in Neptune's plea, 

He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, 

What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 

And question'd every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked Promontory, 

They knew not of his story, 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, 

The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatall and perfidious Bark 

Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

   Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, 

His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, 

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 

Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? 

Last came, and last did go, 

The Pilot of the Galilean lake, 

Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, 

(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) 

He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, 

How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, 

Anow of such as for their bellies sake, 

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? 

Of other care they little reck'ning make, 

Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 

Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least 

That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! 

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, 

The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: 

Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, 

But that two-handed engine at the door, 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 

   Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 

That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, 

And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast 

Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. 

Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, 

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 

On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, 

Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, 

That on the green terf suck the honied showres, 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. 

Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. 

The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, 

The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, 

The glowing Violet. 

The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. 

With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears: 

Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 

To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas 

Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; 

Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 

Where the great vision of the guarded Mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; 

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. 

And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. 

   Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, 

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, 

So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves 

Where other groves, and other streams along, 

With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, 

And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, 

In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. 

There entertain him all the Saints above, 

In solemn troops, and sweet Societies 

That sing, and singing in their glory move, 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; 

Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 

To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

   Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, 

While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, 

He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, 

With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: 

And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 

And now was dropt into the Western bay; 

At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: 

To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.