JOHN MILTON. 1608-1674.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's 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 cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O if Jove's 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.

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

(Nov. 1642.)

CAPTAIN or Colonel, or knight in arms,

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674. Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms;

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,

And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower;
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground; and the repeated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE
THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

WHEN Faith and Love which parted from thee never;

Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of Death, called Life; which us from Life doth sever.
Thy works and alms and all thy good endeavour
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod ;

But as Faith pointed with her golden rod,

Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.

Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best,
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones

Forget not in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way

Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

JOHN WHEN I consider how my light is spent

MILTON.

1608-1674.

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,

'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?'
I fondly ask: But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest :-
They also serve who only stand and wait.'