Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc'ry of Circæan art,

And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools
To face once more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true

ELEGY II.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.

Composed by Milton in the 17th year of his age

THEE, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear,
Minerva's flock long time was wont t' obey,
Although thyself an herald, famous here,

The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns

To spare the office, that himself sustains

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour in ancient time,

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or Eson-like, to know a second prime,
Worthy, for whom some goddess shall have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.

Commission'd to convene, with hasty call,

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand!

So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,

Wing-footed messenger of love's command!

And so Eurybates, when he address'd

To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest.

Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws And watchful eyes, run through the realms below. Oh oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!

Too often to the muse not less a foe!

Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its shame

Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'ry eye,
All ye disciples of the muses, weep!

Assembling, all, in robes of sable die,

Around his bier, lament his endless sleep!

And let complaining elegy rehearse,

In every school, her sweetest, saddest verse

ELEGY III.

ON

THE DEATH

OF THE

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

Composed in the Author's 17th year.

SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,

Making, in thought, the publick woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!

How death, his fun'ral torch and sithe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land
Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low,
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and followed with her sighs,
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said;
"Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the dead
Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine,
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will,
That all the winged nations, even those,
Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin'd!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
Why take delight with darts, that never roam,
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home ""

While thus I mourn'd the star of evening stood, Now newly ris'n above the western flood, And Phœbus, from his morning-goal, again Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. I wish'd repose, and, on my couch declin'd, Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd; When-Oh for words to paint what I beheld I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height;

Flowers over all the field, of every hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.

Nor Chloris, with whom am'rous Zephyrs play,
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay.
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold,
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flow'rs,
With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs.
Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.

While I, that splendour, and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd survey'd, At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face. His snowy vesture's hem descending low His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow. Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around. Attendant angels clap their starry wings, The trumpet shakes the sky, all æther rings, Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest: "Ascend, my son! thy father's kingdom share ' My son henceforth be freed from ev'ry care!"

So spake the voice, and at its tender close With psalt'ry's sound th' angelick band arose. Then night retired, and chas'd by dawning day The visionary bliss pass'd all away.

I mourn'd my banished sleep, with fond concern; Frequent to me may dreams like this return

ELEGY IV.

TO HIS TUTOR,

THOMAS YOUNG,

CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURG

Written in the Author's 18th year.

HENCE my epistle-skim the deep-fly o'er
Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonick shore!
Haste-lest a friend should grieve for thy delay—
And the gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way
I will myself invoke the king, who binds,
In his Sicanian echoing vault, the winds,
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.
But rather, to ensure thy happier hasto,
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou may'st;
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore

The sands, that line the German coast, descried, To opulent Hamburga turn aside!

So called, if legendary fame be true,

From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew!
There lives, deep-learn'd and primitively just,

A faithful steward of his christian trust,
My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart,
That now is forced to want its better part!

What mountains now, and seas, alas! how wide!
From me this other, dearer self divide ;
Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth
To the prime spirit of the attick youth'