JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

CYRIAC, whose grandsire on the royal bench

Of British Themis, with no mean applause

Pronounced, and in his volumes taught our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;

To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench

In mirth, that after no repenting draws;

Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French.

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,

And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER, UPON HIS BLINDNESS.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

CYRIAC, this three-years-day these eyes, though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light their seeing have forgot;

Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate one jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied

In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side,

This thought might lead me through this world's vain

mask

Content though blind, had I no better guide.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,

Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare

To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

JOHN MILTON.

1608-1674.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have,
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind :

Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

My busy fancy calls thy thread mis-spun ;

Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun

While thus she speaks,— Those wings that from the

store

Of virtue were not lent, howe'er, they bore

In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly ambitious wait for Nature's time:
Content by certain, though by slow degrees
To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;
Nor is that man confined to this low clime,
Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees
And hears celestial echoes with delight.'