But firft, and chiefeft, with thee bring, Him that yon foars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The Cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hift along, 'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently.o'er th' accuftom'd oak;
Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noise of folly, Moft mufical, moft melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-fong; And miffing thee, I walk unfeen 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 Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rifing ground, I hear the far-off Curfeu found, Over fome wide-water'd fhore, Swinging flow with fullen roar; Or if the air will not permit, Some still removed 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 belman's droufy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm : Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch 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 forfook Her manfion in this fleshly nook :
And of thofe Demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true confent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous tragedy In fcepter'd pall come sweeping by, Prefenting Thebes', or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O fad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower, Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did feek. Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horfe of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if ought elfe great bards befide In fage and folemn tunes have fung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forefts, and inchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus night oft fee me in thy pale carreer,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont With the Attic boy to hunt,
Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in clofe covert by fome brook, Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth fing, And the waters murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
And let fome strange myfterious dream Wave at his wings in aery
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good, Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the ftudious cloyfter's pale, And love the high embowed roof,, * With antic pillars mafly proof, And ftoried windows richly dight, Cafting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and moffy cell, Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every ftar that Heav'n doth shew, And every herb that fips the dew; Till old experience do attain To fomething like prophetic ftrain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
Part of an Entertainment prefented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by fome noble perfons of her family, who appear on the scene in paftoral habit, moving toward the feat of ftate, with this Song.
LOOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence defcry, Too divine to be mistook:
To whom our vows and wishes bend; Here our folémn fearch hath end.
* This poem is only part of an Entertainment, or Mask, as it is alfo intitled in Milton's Manufcript, the reft probably being of a different pature, or composed by a different hand.
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