SONNET TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

John Milton.

CYRIAC, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain. mask

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

MILTON, THOU SHOULDST BE LIVING AT THIS HOUR.

William Wordsworth.

LONDON, 1802.

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

AN HORATIAN ODE.

UPON OLIVER CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND IN 1650.

Andrew Marvell.

THE forward youth that would appear,

Must now forsake his Muses dear;

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusèd armor's rust;
Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star;

And like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide.

For 'tis all one to courage high,

The emulous, or enemy;

And, with such, to enclose,

Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;

And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,

(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,)

Could by industrious valor climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould!

Though justice against fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain
But those do hold or break,

As men are strong or weak.

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art:

Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope

That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne,
The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands,

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene;

But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try:

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,

To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour,

Which first assured the forced power;

So, when they did design

The capitol's first line,

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust:

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic's hand,
How fit he is to sway

That can so well obey.

He to the commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents,
And (what he may) forbears

His fame to make it theirs :

And has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the public's skirt:
So when the falcon high

Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch,

Where, when he first does lure,

The falconer has her sure.

1 An omen that appeared at the founding of the Capitol at Rome.