"Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats disdain,
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'or sustain.
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent,
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I choose.
I would, that, exiled to the Pontick shore,
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing moro.
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays,
And Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise
For here I woo the muse; with no control,
And here my books-my life-absorb me whole
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep,
The winding theatre's majestick sweep,
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws.
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
And, artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove.
What love is, know not, yet unknowing, love.
Or, if impassion'd Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief, At times, e'en bitter tears! yield sweet relief. As when from bliss untasted torn away, Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day, Or when the ghost, sent back to shades below, Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful wo, When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords, Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. Nor always city-pent, or pent at home, I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm, that never sun pervades.
Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire '
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies.
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestowed
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!
Bright locks, Love's golden snare! these falling low
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r
Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower!
Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th' embraca
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!
Give place, ye turbann'd fair of Persia's coast!
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom
Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome.
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains
Redundant, and still live in classick strains!
To British damsels beauty's palm is due,
Aliens! to follow them is fame for you.
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,
Whose towering front the circling realm commands,
Too blest abode! no loveliness we see
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
The virgin multitude that daily meets,
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
Out-numbers all her train of starry fires,
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore.
But lest the sightless boy enforce my stay,
leave these happy walls, while yet I may
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc'ry of Circæan art,
And 1 will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools
To face once more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true
DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.
Composed by Milton in the 17th year of his age
THEE, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear,
Minerva's flock long time was wont t' obey,
Although thyself an herald, famous here,
The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.
He calls on all alike, nor even deigns
To spare the office, that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour in ancient time,
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or Eson-like, to know a second prime,
Worthy, for whom some goddess shall have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.
Commission'd to convene, with hasty call,
The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst. thou
So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command!
And so Eurybates, when he address'd
To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest.
Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws And watchful eyes, run through the realms below. Oh oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!
Too often to the muse not less a foe!
Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its shame
Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'ry eye,
All ye disciples of the muses, weep!
Assembling, all, in robes of sable die,
Around his bier, lament his endless sleep!
And let complaining elegy rehearse,
In every school, her sweetest, saddest verse
SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making, in thought, the publick woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast
Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!
How death, his fun'ral torch and sithe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land
Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low,
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and followed with her sighs,
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said;
"Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the dead'
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine,
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will,
That all the winged nations, even those,
Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin'd!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
Why take delight with darts, that never roam,
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home ""
While thus I mourn'd the star of evening stood, Now newly ris'n above the western flood, And Phoebus, from his morning-goal, again Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. I wish'd repose, and, on my couch declin'd, Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd; When-Oh for words to paint what I beheld' I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height:
|