Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landskip round it measures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest, Meadows trim with daises pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead
To the tanned 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 chequered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holy-day,
Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets eat, She was pinched, and pulled, she said, And he by friars' lanthorn led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, To earn his cream bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn,
That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, And stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds sood lulled asleep. Towered 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 robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, 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 learnéd sock be on, Or sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting 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 heaped Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regained 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 bested,
Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering 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, O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee, bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bowers 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, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of Cyprus 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 hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; And add to these retiréd Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er the accustomed 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 even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the Heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bowed, 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 removéd place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 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 unsphere The spirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine;
Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But oh, sad virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seck. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
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