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And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
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,
While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

THE MIGHT OF INNOCENCE.

A thousand fantasies

Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,
And aery tongues that syllable men's names
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong siding champion, Conscience.

Oh welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings,
And thou, unblemished form of Chastity!

I see ye visibly, and now believe

That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,

Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,

To keep my life and honour unassailed.

Comus.

THE LIGHT OF VIRTUE.

VIRTUE could see to do what Virtue would

VIRTUE

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon

Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self

Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude;

Where with her best nurse Contemplation,

She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,
That in the various bustle of resort

Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
He that has light within his own clear breast,
May sit in the center, and enjoy bright day:
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts,
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.

SONNETS.

Comus.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.

HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Towards which Time leads me, and the will of heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

A

VENGE, 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 hundredfold, who, having learned thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

WHEN

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.'

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

LEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,

BLE

Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbèd song of pure concent,

Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee ;
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly :

While all the rounds and arches blue

Resound and echo Hallelu,

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise e;
As once we did, till disproportioned sin

Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed

In perfect diapason, whilst they stood,

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

FLY,

ON TIME.

LY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race; Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain!

For when as each thing bad thou hast entombed,

And last of all thy greedy self consumed,

Then long eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss ;

And joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine

About the supreme throne

Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone

When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,

Then, all this earthly grossness quit,

Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time!

HYMN ON THE NATIVITY,

T was the winter wild,

IT

While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in awe to him

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

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