Where I may oft outwatch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook; And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or underground, Whose power hath a true consent, With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine, Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin! that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower; Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek; Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife That owned the virtuous1 ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale,3 And love the high embowèd roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight,4 Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell5 Of every star that heaven doth shew,
Where more is meant than meets the And every herb that sips the dew,
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked2 and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchieft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud; Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 1 magical.
Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 175 And I with thee will choose to live.
And all their echoes, mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing With wild thyme and the gadding vine year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth' swain to the oaks and rills,
186 While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,8
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190
And now was dropped into the western bay. At last he rose, and twitched his mantle. blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures
What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in pilèd stones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
ON HIS BLINDNESS
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued1 And that one talent which is death to book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression Lodged with me useless, though my soul
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