Why should two hearts in one breast lie, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolv'd, Then, farewell care! and farewell woe! For I'll believe I have her heart, WHEN, DEAREST! I but think of thee, Still present with us, though unsighted. Thus, whilst I sit and sigh the day, Thus absence dies; and dying, proves That do partake of fair perfection: The waving sea can with each flood TO A LOVER. WHY so pale and wan, fond Lover? Will, when looking well can't move her Pr'ythee why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young Sinner, Will, when speaking well can't win her, Pr'ythee why so mute? Quit, quit for shame! this will not move, JOHN MILTON. 1639. Milton, who when young was singularly beautiful, is reported to have become enamoured with an Italian Lady during his travels, to whom he addressed several interesting poems, written in her native tongue. The Sonnet to the Nightingale, among his English minor poems, is also amatory, though the object by which it was inspired cannot perhaps be now ascertained. Milton was twice married, and both his wives died in child-bed. It was on the death of his first wife, Mary, daughter of Richard Powell, Esq. that he composed that sublime tribute of affection, beginning" Methought I saw my late espoused Saint;" a production which, for its sacred tenderness, has never been approached except in Cowper's Sonnet to another Mary, Mrs. Unwin. John Milton was born in Bread-street, in the city of London, on the 9th of December, 1608: he died on November 10th, 1674, at his house in Bunhill-fields, and was buried in St. Giles's Cripplegate, his funeral being both splendidly and numerously attended. He bequeathed 15007. to his family; r a proof," observes Dr. Anderson," that he never was in indigence." TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, O LADY fair! whose honour'd name is borne Each radiant virtue though those deeds display! Sure happy he, who that sweet voice should hear Mould the soft speech, or swell the tuneful strain, And, conscious that his humble vows were vain, Shut fond attention from his closed ear; Who, piteous of himself, should timely part, As o'er yon wild hill, when the browner light To foster some fair plant with kind supplies; By such as wont to Tamis' banks repair, CHARLES! must I say, what strange it seems to say, The voice, that breathing melody so rare, Might lead the toil'd moon from the middle sky! Charles! when such mischief arm'd this foreign Fair, Small chance had I to hope this simple heart should fly. |