Selected Poems: John Milton (Dover Thrift Editions) - Softcover

Milton, John

Softcover

ISBN 10: 048627554X ISBN 13: 9780486275543

Publisher: Dover Publications Inc., 2016

Synopsis

Best known as the author of the epic poem Paradise Lost, John Milton (1608-74) was also an accomplished writer of shorter verse forms. This treasury presents twenty of the best of these works: On the Morning of Christ's Nativity, On Shakespeare, L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Comus, A Mask, Lycidas, On the Late Massacre in Piedmont, On His Blindness, On His Deceased Wife, Samson Agonistes, and more.
In this carefully chosen selection, readers will discover the wide erudition, mastery of meter and rhythm, and superb artistic control that have earned Milton a preeminent place in English literature.

About this title

About the Author

One of the greatest of English poets, John Milton (1608-74) is best known for his immortal epic, Paradise Lost. A prolific pamphleteer and polemicist, he is also a giant in the history of political thought and philosophy who opposed state-sponsored religion and championed liberty of conscience.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Selected Poems

By JOHN MILTON, STANLEY APPELBAUM

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 1993 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-486-27554-3

Contents

On the Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough (1626), 1, 
On the Morning of Christ's Nativity (1629), 4, 
Song on May Morning (ca. 1630), 13, 
Sonnet to the Nightingale (ca. 1630), 13, 
On Shakespeare (1630), 14, 
On His Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three (1631), 14, 
Arcades(ca. 1632), 15, 
At a Solemn Music (ca. 1632), 18, 
L'Allegro (ca. 1632), 19, 
Il Penseroso (ca. 1632), 23, 
Comus: A Mask (1634), 28, 
Lycidas (1637), 56, 
When the Assault Was Intended to the City (1642), 61, 
On the Same (1645), 62, 
On the Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester (1648), 62, 
To the Lord General Cromwell, on the Proposals of Certain Ministers at the Committee for the Propagation of the Gospel (1652), 63, 
On His Blindness (ca. 1652–1655), 64, 
On the Late Massacre in Piemont (1655), 64, 
On His Deceased Wife (1658), 65, 
Samson Agonistes (?; published 1671), 65, 
Alphabetical List of Titles, 111, 
Alphabetical List of First Lines, 113, 

CHAPTER 1

On the Death of a Fair Infant
Dying of a Cough


I

O fairest Flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly,
Summers chief honour, if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak Winters force that made thy blossom dry;
For he, being amorous on that lovely dye
  That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss
But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss.

II

For since grim Aquilo, his charioter,
By boisterous rape the Athenian damsel got,
He thought it touched his Deity full near,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away the infamous blot
  Of long uncoupled bed and childless eld,
Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was
  held.

III

So, mounting up in icy-pearled car,
Through middle empire of the freezing air
He wandered long, till thee he spied from far;
There ended was his quest, there ceased his care:
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,
  But, all un'wares, with his cold-kind embrace,
Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place.

IV

Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilom did slay his dearly-loved mate,
Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas' strand,
Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land;
  But then transformed him to a purple flower:
Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power!

V

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,
Or that thy corse corrupts in earths dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed
Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb;
Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom?
  Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that showed thou wast divine.

VI

Resolve me, then, O Soul most surely blest
(If so be it that thou these plaints dost hear)
Tell me, bright Spirit, where er thou hoverest,
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in the Elysian fields (if such there were),
  Oh, say me true if thou wert mortal wight,
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight.

VII

Wert thou some Star, which from the ruined roof
Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which careful Jove in natures true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late Earths sons besiege the wall
  Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some Goddess fled
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectared head?

VIII

Or wert thou that just Maid who once before
Forsook the hated earth, oh! tell me sooth,
And earnest again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou that sweet smiling Youth?
Or that crowned Matron, sage white-robed Truth?
  Or any other of that heavenly brood
Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?

IX

Or wert thou of the golden-winged host,
Who, having clad thyself in human weed*
To earth from thy prefixed seat didst post,
And after short abode fly back with speed,
As if to shew what creatures Heaven doth breed;
  Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire
To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire?

X

But oh! why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy heaven-loved innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe,
To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence,
  To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart?
But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.

XI

Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,
Her false-imagined loss cease to lament,
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild;
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
And render him with patience what he lent:
  This if thou do, he will an offspring give
That till the worlds last end shall make thy name to live.


On the Morning of Christ's Nativity

I

This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heavens eternal King,
Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
  That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heavens high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and, here with us to be,
  Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heaven, by the Suns team untrod,
  Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV

See how from far upon the Eastern road
The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet!
Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire,
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.


The Hymn

I

    It was the winter wild,
    While the heaven-born child
  All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
    Nature, in awe to him,
    Had doffed her gaudy trim,
  With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour.

II

      Only with speeches fair
      She woos the gentle air
    To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
      And on her naked shame,
    Pollute with sinful blame,
  The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Makers eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

III

    But he, her fears to cease,
    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
  She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
    Down through the turning sphere,
    His ready Harbinger,
  With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

IV

      No war, or battails sound,
      Was heard the world around;
  The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
    The hooked chariot stood,
    Unstained with hostile blood;
  The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And Kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

V

        But peaceful was the night
        Wherein the Prince of Light
      His reign of peace upon the earth began.
      The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissed,
  Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

VI

      The stars, with deep amaze,
      Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
    Bending one way their precious influence,
      And will not take their flight,
      For all the morning light,
    Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

VII

      And, though the shady gloom
      Had given day her room,
    The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
      And hid his head for shame,
      As his inferior flame
  The new-enlightened world no more should need:
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright Throne or burning axletree could bear.

VIII

    The Shepherds on the lawn,
    Or ere the point of dawn,
  Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
    Full little thought they then
    That the mighty Pan
  Was kindly come to live with them below:
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

IX

    When such music sweet
    Their hearts and ears did greet
  As never was by mortal finger strook,
    Divinely-warbled voice
    Answering the stringed noise,
  As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

X

    Nature, that heard such sound
    Beneath the hollow round
  Of Cynthias seat the airy Region thrilling,
    Now was almost won
    To think her part was done,
  And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

XI

    At last surrounds their sight
    A globe of circular light,
  That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed;
    The helmed Cherubim
    And sworded Seraphim
  Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes, to Heavens newborn Heir.

XII

    Such music (as 'tis said)
    Before was never made,
  But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
    While the Creator great
    His constellations set,
  And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

XIII

    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
    Once bless our human ears,
  If ye have power to touch our senses so;
    And let your silver chime
    Move in melodious time;
  And let the bass of heavens deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

XIV

    For, if such holy song
    Enwrap our fancy long,
  Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;
    And speckled Vanity
    Inexpressible.
    Will sicken soon and die,
  And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

XV

    Yes, Truth and Justice then
    Will down return to men,
  The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing;
    And Mercy set between,
    Throned in celestial sheen,
  With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

XVI

    But wisest Fate says No,
    This must not yet be so;
  The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy
    That on the bitter cross
    Must redeem our loss,
  So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the
      deep,

XVII

    With such a horrid clang
    As on Mount Sinai rang,
  While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
    The aged Earth, aghast
    With terror of that blast,
  Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
When, at the worlds last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

XVIII

    And then at last our bliss
    Full and perfect is,
  But now begins; for from this happy day
    The Old Dragon under ground,
    In straiter limits bound,
  Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

XIX

    The Oracles are dumb;
    No voice or hideous hum
  Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
    Apollo from his shrine
    Can no more divine,
  With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.

XX

    The lonely mountains o'er,
    And the resounding shore,
  A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
    From haunted spring, and dale
    Edgèd with poplar pale,
  The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

XXI

    In consecrated earth,
    And on the holy hearth,
  The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
    In urns, and altars round,
    A drear and dying sound
  Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

XXII

    Peor and Baalim
    Forsake their temples dim,
  With that twice-battered god of Palestine;
    And mooned Ashtaroth,
    Heavens Queen and Mother both,
  Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine:
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz
    mourn.

XXIII

    And sullen Moloch, fled,
    Hath left in shadows dread
  His burning idol all of blackest hue;
    In vain with cymbals ring
    They call the grisly king,
  In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

XXIV

    Nor is Osiris seen
    In Memphian grove or green,
  Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;
    Nor can he be at rest
    Within his sacred chest;
  Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,
The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.

XXV

    He feels from Judas land
    The dreaded Infants hand;
  The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
    Nor all the gods beside
    Longer dare abide,
  Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.

XXVI

    So, when the Sun in bed,
    Curtained with cloudy red,
  Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
    The flocking shadows pale
    Troop to the infernal jail,
  Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

XXVII

    But see! the Virgin blest
    Hath laid her Babe to rest,
  Time is our tedious song should here have ending:
    Heavens youngest-teemed star
    Hath fixed her polished car,
  Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;
And all about the courtly stable
Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.


Song on May Morning

Now the bright morning-star, Days harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.


Sonnet to the Nightingale

O Nightingale that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lovers heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoos bill,
Portend success in love. O if Joves will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.


On Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hollowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What needst thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.


On His Being Arrived to the Age of
Twenty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
  Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
  My hasting days fly on with full career,
  But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
  That I to manhood am arrived so near,
  And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
  That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
  It shall be still in strictest measure even
  To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven.
  All is, if I have grace to use it so,
  As ever in my great Task-masters eye.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Selected Poems by JOHN MILTON, STANLEY APPELBAUM. Copyright © 1993 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Dover Publications Inc.
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 048627554X
• ISBN 13: 9780486275543
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 128