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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421397" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>From 'Arcades</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'RE the smooth enameld green <br> Where no print of step hath been, <br> Follow me as I sing, <br> And touch the warbled string. <br>Under the shady roof <br>Of branching Elm Star-proof, <br> Follow me, <br>I will bring you where she sits <br>Clad in splendor as befits <br> Her deity. <br>Such a rural Queen <br>All Arcadia hath not seen. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">313. From 'Comus' <br>i </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold, <br>Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, <br>And the gilded Car of Day, <br>His glowing Axle doth allay <br>In the steep Atlantick stream, <br>And the slope Sun his upward beam <br>Shoots against the dusky Pole, <br>Pacing toward the other gole <br>Of his Chamber in the East. <br>Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, <br>Midnight shout, and revelry, <br>Tipsie dance, and Jollity. <br>Braid your Locks with rosie Twine <br>Dropping odours, dropping Wine. <br>Rigor now is gon to bed, <br>And Advice with scrupulous head, <br>Strict Age, and sowre Severity, <br>With their grave Saws in slumber ly. <br>We that are of purer fire <br>Imitate the Starry Quire, <br>Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, <br>Lead in swift round the Months and Years. <br>The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove <br>Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, <br>And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, <br>Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; <br>By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, <br>The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, <br>Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: <br>What hath night to do with sleep? <br>Night hath better sweets to prove, <br>Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.... <br>Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, <br>In a light fantastick round. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">John Milton. 1608-1674 </div><div style="margin:10px 0">314. From' Comus' <br>ii. Echo </div><div style="margin:10px 0">SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen <br> Within thy airy shell <br> By slow Meander's margent green, <br> And in the violet imbroider'd vale <br> Where the love-lorn Nightingale <br> Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well. <br> Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair <br> That likest thy Narcissus are? <br> O if thou have <br> Hid them in som flowry Cave, <br> Tell me but where <br> Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear! <br> So maist thou be translated to the skies, <br>And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">John Milton. 1608-1674 </div><div style="margin:10px 0">315. From' Comus' <br>iii. Sabrina </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair <br> Listen where thou art sitting <br>Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, <br> In twisted braids of Lillies knitting <br>The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, <br> Listen for dear honour's sake, <br> Goddess of the silver lake, <br> Listen and save! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Listen and appear to us, <br>In name of great Oceanus, <br>By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, <br>And Tethys grave majestick pace, <br>By hoary Nereus wrincled look, <br>And the Carpathian wisards hook, <br>By scaly Tritons winding shell, <br>And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, <br>By Leucothea's lovely hands, <br>And her son that rules the strands, <br>By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet, <br>And the Songs of Sirens sweet, <br>By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, <br>And fair Ligea's golden comb, <br>Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks <br>Sleeking her soft alluring locks, <br>By all the Nymphs that nightly dance <br>Upon thy streams with wily glance, <br>Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head <br>From thy coral-pav'n bed, <br>And bridle in thy headlong wave, <br>Till thou our summons answered have. <br> Listen and save! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, <br>Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, <br> My sliding Chariot stayes, <br>Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen <br>Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green <br> That in the channell strayes, <br>Whilst from off the waters fleet <br>Thus I set my printless feet <br>O're the Cowslips Velvet head, <br> That bends not as I tread, <br>Gentle swain at thy request <br> I am here. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">John Milton. 1608-1674 </div><div style="margin:10px 0">316. From 'Comus' <br>iv </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, <br>And those happy climes that ly <br>Where day never shuts his eye, <br>Up in the broad fields of the sky: <br>There I suck the liquid ayr <br>All amidst the Gardens fair <br>Of Hesperus, and his daughters three <br>That sing about the golden tree: <br>Along the crisped shades and bowres <br>Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, <br>The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, <br>Thither all their bounties bring, <br>That there eternal Summer dwels, <br>And West winds, with musky wing <br>About the cedar'n alleys fling <br>Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels. <br>Iris there with humid bow, <br>Waters the odorous banks that blow <br>Flowers of more mingled hew <br>Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, <br>And drenches with Elysian dew <br>(List mortals, if your ears be true) <br>Beds of Hyacinth, and roses <br>Where young Adonis oft reposes, <br>Waxing well of his deep wound <br>In slumber soft, and on the ground <br>Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen; <br>But far above in spangled sheen <br>Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, <br>Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't <br>After her wandring labours long, <br>Till free consent the gods among <br>Make her his eternal Bride, <br>And from her fair unspotted side <br>Two blissful twins are to be born, <br>Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. <br> But now my task is smoothly don, <br>I can fly, or I can run <br>Quickly to the green earths end, <br>Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, <br>And from thence can soar as soon <br>To the corners of the Moon. <br> Mortals that would follow me, <br>Love vertue, she alone is free. <br>She can teach ye how to clime <br>Higher then the Spheary chime; <br>Or if Vertue feeble were, <br>Heav'n it self would stoop to her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more <br>Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, <br>I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, <br>And with forc'd fingers rude, <br>Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. <br>Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, <br>Compels me to disturb your season due: <br>For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime <br>Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: <br>Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew <br>Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. <br>He must not flote upon his watry bear <br>Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, <br>Without the meed of som melodious tear. <br> Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, <br>That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, <br>Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. <br>Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, <br>So may som gentle Muse <br>With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, <br>And as he passes turn, <br>And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. <br>For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, <br>Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. <br> Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd <br>Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, <br>We drove a field, and both together heard <br>What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, <br>Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, <br>Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright <br>Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. <br>Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, <br>Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; <br>Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, <br>From the glad sound would not be absent long, <br>And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. <br> But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, <br>Now thou art gon, and never must return! <br>Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, <br>With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, <br>And all their echoes mourn. <br>The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, <br>Shall now no more be seen, <br>Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. <br>As killing as the Canker to the Rose, <br>Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, <br>Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, <br>When first the White thorn blows; <br>Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. <br> Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep <br>Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? <br>For neither were ye playing on the steep, <br>Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, <br>Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, <br>Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: <br>Ay me, I fondly dream! <br>Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? <br>What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, <br>The Muse her self, for her inchanting son <br>Whom Universal nature did lament, <br>When by the rout that made the hideous roar, <br>His goary visage down the stream was sent, <br>Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. <br> Alas! what boots it with uncessant care <br>To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, <br>And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, <br>Were it not better don as others use, <br>To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, <br>Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? <br>Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise <br>(That last infirmity of Noble mind) <br>To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; <br>But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, <br>And think to burst out into sudden blaze, <br>Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, <br>And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, <br>Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; <br>Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, <br>Nor in the glistering foil <br>Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, <br>But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, <br>And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; <br>As he pronounces lastly on each deed, <br>Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. <br> O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, <br>Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, <br>That strain I heard was of a higher mood: <br>But now my Oate proceeds, <br>And listens to the Herald of the Sea <br>That came in Neptune's plea, <br>He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, <br>What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? <br>And question'd every gust of rugged wings <br>That blows from off each beaked Promontory, <br>They knew not of his story, <br>And sage Hippotades their answer brings, <br>That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, <br>The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, <br>Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. <br>It was that fatall and perfidious Bark <br>Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, <br>That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. <br> Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, <br>His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, <br>Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge <br>Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. <br>Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? <br>Last came, and last did go, <br>The Pilot of the Galilean lake, <br>Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, <br>(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) <br>He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, <br>How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, <br>Anow of such as for their bellies sake, <br>Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? <br>Of other care they little reck'ning make, <br>Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, <br>And shove away the worthy bidden guest. <br>Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold <br>A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least <br>That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! <br>What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; <br>And when they list, their lean and flashy songs <br>Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, <br>The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, <br>But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, <br>Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: <br>Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw <br>Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, <br>But that two-handed engine at the door, <br>Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. <br> Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, <br>That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, <br>And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast <br>Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. <br>Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, <br>Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, <br>On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, <br>Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, <br>That on the green terf suck the honied showres, <br>And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. <br>Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. <br>The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, <br>The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, <br>The glowing Violet. <br>The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. <br>With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, <br>And every flower that sad embroidery wears: <br>Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, <br>And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, <br>To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. <br>For so to interpose a little ease, <br>Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. <br>Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas <br>Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, <br>Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, <br>Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide <br>Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; <br>Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, <br>Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, <br>Where the great vision of the guarded Mount <br>Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; <br>Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. <br>And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. <br> Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, <br>For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, <br>Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, <br>So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, <br>And yet anon repairs his drooping head, <br>And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, <br>Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: <br>So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, <br>Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves <br>Where other groves, and other streams along, <br>With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, <br>And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, <br>In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. <br>There entertain him all the Saints above, <br>In solemn troops, and sweet Societies <br>That sing, and singing in their glory move, <br>And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. <br>Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; <br>Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, <br>In thy large recompense, and shalt be good <br>To all that wander in that perilous flood. <br> Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, <br>While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, <br>He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, <br>With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: <br>And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, <br>And now was dropt into the Western bay; <br>At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: <br>To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Milton">John Milton</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421397" data-title="From 'Arcades de John Milton" data-description="O'RE the smooth enameld green Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing, And touch the warbled string. Under the shady roof Of branching Elm Star-proof, Foll..."></div> </div> </div>
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