Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the' infection of my sorrows loud This subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright, Burn in your sighs, and borrow Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease. His infancy to seize! O more exceeding love, or law more just? Were lost in death, till he, that dwelt above And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT. DYING OF A COUGH." * O FAIREST FLOWER, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose, fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry: For he, being amorous on that lovely dye * Written in 1625, when Milton was seventeen. The infant was a daughter of the poet's sister Phillips. Warton. That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, By boisterous rape the' Athenian damsel got, So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unwares, with his cold-kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair biding place. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb, Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb; Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Above mortality, that show'd thou was divine. Resolve me then, oh Soul most surely bless'd, Oh say me true, if thou wert mortal wight, And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight? Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Of shak'd Olympus by mischance didst fall; Which careful Jove in Nature's true behoof Took up, and in fit place did reinstall ? Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall Of sheeny Heaven, and thou, some Goddess fled, Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head? Or wert thou that just Maid, who once before Or wert thou [Mercy,] that sweet-smiling youth? Or wert thou of the golden-winged host, To scorn the sordid world, and unto heaven aspire? But oh! why didst thou not stay here below, To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart?But thou canst best perform that office where thou art. Then thou, the Mother of so sweet a Child, That, till the world's last end, shall make thy name to live ON TIME.* FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain! For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, *In Milton's manuscript, written with his own hand, the title is, 'On Time. To be set on a clock-case.' |