Io, che in riva dell' Arno
Tento spiegar tuo merto alto e preclaro, so
So che fatico indarno,

E ad ammirar, non a lodarlo imparo;
Freno dunque la lingua, e ascolto il core,
Che ti prende a lodar con lo stupore.
Del Sig. ANTONIO FRANCINI,
Gentiluomo Fiorentino.

IOANNI MILTONI LONDINENSI

Iuveni patriâ, virtutibus, eximio: Viro qui multa peregrinatione, studio cuncta, orbis terrarum loca perspexit, ut, novus Ulysses, omnia ubique ab omnibus apprehenderet:

Polyglotto, in cuius ore linguæ iam deperditæ sic reviviscunt ut idiomata omnia sint in eius laudibus infacunda; et iure ea percallet ut admirationes et plausus populorum ab propriâ sapientiâ excitatos intelligat:

Illi, cuius animi dotes corporisque sensus ad admirationem commovent, et per ipsam motum cuique auferunt; cuius opera ad plausus hortantur, sed venustate vocem laudatoribus adimunt:

Cui in memoriâ totus orbis; in intellectu sapientia; in voluntate ardor gloriæ; in ore eloquentia; harmonicos cælestium sphærarum sonitus Astronomiâ duce audienti; characteres mirabilium naturæ per quos Dei magnitudo describitur magistrâ Philosophiâ legenti; antiquitatum latebras, vetustatis excidia, eruditionis ambages, comite assiduâ autorum lectione,

Exquirenti, restauranti, percurrenti
(At cur nitor in arduum?):

Illi in cuius virtutibus evulgandis ora Famæ non sufficiant, nec hominum stupor in laudandis satis est, reverentiæ et amoris ergo hoc eius meritis debitum admirationis tributum offert

CAROLUS DATUs, Patricius Florentinus, tanto homini servus, tantæ virtutis amator.

Dio

This verse-letter marks the occasion of Milton's rustication from college during his second academic year, 1625-26, owing to a dispute with his tutor, William Chappell (see introductory biography). It is addressed to his bosom friend Charles Diodati, to whom also the sixth Latin Elegy and the Italian canzone are addressed, and in whose memory the Epitaphium Damonis was written. dati was the son of an Italian father a physician settled in London and an English mother. Milton's acquaintance with him, begun at St. Paul's School, continued after Diodati went up to Oxford, two years before Milton went to Cambridge. When the present epistle was written, Diodati had taken his first degree, and was visiting in the neighborhood of Chester.

The chief interest of the elegy, besides the light it throws on the incident of Milton's rustication and his feeling toward his college, lies

in the account which he gives of his pastimes during this period of enforced vacation. The enthusiastic account of his theatre-going is especially noteworthy, though ambiguity exists throughout the passage as to whether actual stage representations or merely the reading of drama is meant, an ambiguity which is increased by the fact that the illustrations seem drawn equally from Roman comedy and Greek tragedy, and from the contemporary drama of England. He also recounts his walks in the streets and parks of London, with a youthful zest and freshness doubly delightful in a character like his. His praise of the girls whom he encounters, though couched in the conventional language of pseudo-classic poetry, is thoroughly youthful and gay; even here, however, there is a touch of strenuousness at the end, none the less earnest for being half-playfully uttered.

At last, dear friend, your letter has reached me; the missive paper bears me your words from the western shore of the Dee, by Chester, where that river goes down swiftly to the Irish Sea. Much joy it gives me to think that a far-off country keeps well for me so dear a head as yours, and a heart that loves me; and that this distant region owes me my merry mate, aye, and will soon repay him at my prayers. That city which Thames washes with her tidal wave keeps me fast, nor does my pleasant birth-place detain me against my will. I have no wish to go back to reedy Cam; I feel no homesickness for that forbidden college room of mine. The bare fields there, niggard of pleasant shade, do not please me. How ill does that place suit with poets! I have no fancy to endure forever my stern master's threats or those

other actions at which my nature rebelled. If this is "exile," to live under my fathers' roof and be free to use my leisure pleasantly, I will not repudiate either the name of outcast or his lot, but will in all happiness enjoy this state of exile. Oh would that Ovid, sad exile in the fields of Thrace, had never suffered a worse lot! Then he would have yielded not a whit even to Ionian Homer, nor would the first praise be thine, Virgil, for he would have vanquished thee.

I have time free now to give to the tranquil Muses. My books - my very lifeclaim me wholly. When I am weary, the pomp of the theatre with its sweeping pall awaits me, and the garrulous stage invites me to its own applause. Sometimes the cautious old man holds the scene, or the prodigal heir, or the wooer, or the soldier with his helmet laid aside; or the lawyer, pregnant with a ten-years' suit, thunders barbarous words before an ignorant court. The wily servant helps his young master in his love-scrapes, and tricks the stern father under his very nose; and the girl, wondering at the new ardors that fill her, knows not what love is, and while she knows not, loves. Then frenzied Tragedy shakes her bloody sceptre, and rolls her eyes under her disheveled hair. I suffer and yet I gaze, and find it good to suffer and gaze. A sweet bitterness now and then mingles with my tears as I see some hapless boy leave all his joys untasted and fall lamentable for the rending of his love; or when the fierce avenger of crime recrosses Styx out of the shades, and terrifies conscious breasts with baleful torch; or when the house of Pelops mourns, or mourns the noble house of Ilus; or when the hall of Creon atones for the incest of its ancestors.

But I do not stay indoors always, nor even in town; I do not let the spring slip by unused. I visit the neighboring park, thick-set with elms or the noble shade of some suburban place. There often one may see the virgin bands go past, stars that breathe alluring flames. Ah, how many times have I stood stupefied before the miracle of some gracious form, such as might give old Jove his youth again! Ah, how many

times have I seen eyes brighter than gems, brighter than all the fires that roll about either pole, necks whiter than the arms of Pelops, twice called to life, or the Milky Way that flows with pure nectar! And exquisite grace of brow, and floating locks, — golden nets which Love casts deceivingly, - inviting cheeks, to which the purple of the hyacinth, yea, even the blush of thy flower, Adonis, is dull! Yield, ye Heröides so praised of yore, and all ye loves that snared gadding Jove! Yield, ye Persian damsels with your turreted brows; and all ye who dwell in Susa, in Memnonian Nineveh! Even ye, maidens of Danaus, lower the fasces; and ye Trojan brides, and ye of the race of Romulus! Let not the poet who lived by the Tarpeian rock [Ovid] boast the dames of Pompey's porch, nor the theatre full of Roman stoles. To the virgins of Britain first glory is due; suffice it, foreign woman, that thou canst follow them! And thou city of London, built by Dardanian colonists, thy towered head conspicuous far and wide, thou, too happy, enclosest with thy walls whatever beauty the pendulous Earth owns. Not so many stars twinkle over thee in the clear night sky, ministrant troops of Endymion's goddess, as through thy highways throng troops of girls, bright with beauty and with gold, drawing all eyes with their radiance. Men say that hither blessed Venus came, escorted by her quivered soldier-boy, drawn by twin doves, willing to love London more than Cnidos, or the vales watered by the stream of Simöis, or Paphos, or rosy Cyprus.

But for my part, while the blind boy grants me immunity, I make ready to leave these fortunate walls as quickly as I may; and avoid far off the evil halls of Circe the deceiver, using the help of moly, that heavenly plant. It has been arranged for me to go back to the bulrush swamps of Cam, and to the raucous murmur of the school. Meanwhile take this poor gift of a faithful friend, these few words constrained into the measure of elegy.

The person to whose memory this elegy is addressed, Richard Ridding, M.A., of St. John's College, Cambridge, died in the autumn of 1626, near the beginning of Milton's third year at the University. Three persons at Cambridge bear the title of Esquire Bedel (Latin praeco, herald or crier). Their duties are, to bear the mace before the Chancellor on solemn occasions, and to give summons. The office is one of considerable dignity, and has a TE, qui conspicuus baculo fulgente solebas Palladium toties ore ciere gregem, Ultima præconum præconem te quoque

life tenure. The opening lines of the elegy have a suspicion of humor in them, but it is safe to say that Milton's tribute was meant in all seriousness. At any rate, the passing away of a picturesque figure from the University life gave the young Latinist too good an opportunity for versifying to be neglected. The date-heading, anno ætatis 17, is here and elsewhere misleading; Milton was, in the autumn of 1626, near the end of his eighteenth year.

As beadle, you were wont, standing conspicuous with your shining staff, to assemble the flock of Pallas: but now Death, the ultimate beadle, savagely arrests you, too, beadle, and shows no favor even to his own office. 'Tis true, the locks of your temples were whiter than the swan-plumes under which Jove is storied to have hid, but O, you deserved to grow young again like Æson, with the simples drawn by Medea from the flowers of Hæmonvale! Esculapius, son of Coronis, heeding the goddess's prayers importunate, should have called you back with his healing art from the Stygian waves. Whenever you were ordered to go as a swift herald from your Apollo [the vice-chancellor of the university] and bring together the togaed hosts, you stood like wing-foot Hermes in the Trojan halls, sent from the ethereal citadel of his Father; or like the herald Eurybates, when before the stormy face of Achilles he delivered the stern demands of King AgaO thou great queen of sepulchres, handmaid of Avernus, too harsh to the Muses and the arts of Pallas, why shouldst thou not seize instead some huAgainst such rabble thy arrows might betman clod, some useless weight of earth? ter be aimed. O Academe, grieve in mourning vestment for this good man, and bedew his dark bier with thy tears. Let complaining Elegy pour out her sad strains, and let a mournful dirge ring through all the schools.

memnon.