Poems 2, Poem 14
Il Penſeroſo.
HEnce vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you beſted,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in ſom idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy ſhapes poſſeſs,
As thick and numberleſs
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
Or likeſt hovering dreams
The fickle Penſioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddes, ſage and holy,
Hail divineſt Melancholy,
Whoſe Saintly viſage is too bright
To hit the Senſe of human ſight;
And therfore to our weaker view,
Ore laid with black ſtaid Wiſdoms hue▪
Black, but ſuch as in eſteem,
Prince Memnons ſiſter might beſeem,
Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that ſtrove
To ſet her beauties praiſe above
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far deſcended,
Thee bright-hair'd Veſta long of yore,
To ſolitary Saturn bore;
His daughter ſhe (in Saturns raign,
Such mixture was not held a ſtain)
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in ſecret ſhades
Of woody Ida's inmoſt grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove▪
Com penſive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, ſtedfaſt, and demure,
All in a robe of darkeſt grain,
Flowing with majeſtick train,
And ſable ſtole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent ſhoulders drawn.
Com, but keep thy wonted ſtate,
With eev'n ſtep, and muſing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt ſoul ſitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy paſſion ſtill,
Forget thy ſelf to Marble, till
With a ſad Leaden downward caſt,
Thou fix them on the earth as faſt.
And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faſt, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muſes in a ring,
Ay round about Joves Altar ſing.
And adde to theſe retired leaſure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleaſure;
But firſt, and chiefeſt, with thee bring,
Him that yon ſoars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hiſt along,
'Leſs Philomel will daign a Song,
Id her ſweeteſt, ſaddeſt plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o're th'accuſtom'd Oke;
Sweet Bird that ſhunn'ſt the noiſe of folly,
Moſt muſicall, moſt melancholy▪
Thee Chauntreſs oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;
And miſſing thee, I walk unſeen
On the dry ſmooth-ſhaven Green▪
To behold the wandring Moon▪
Riding neer her higheſt noon,
Like one that had bin led aſtray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head ſhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of riſing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu ſound,
Over ſom wide-water'd ſhoar,
Swinging ſlow with ſullen roar;
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som ſtill removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all reſort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans drouſie charm,
To bleſs the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be ſeen in ſom high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unſphear
The ſpirit of Plato to unfold
What Worlds, or what vaſt Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forſook
Her manſion in this fleſhly nook:
And of thoſe Daemons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whoſe power hath a true conſent
With Planet, or with Element.
Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter'd Pall com ſweeping by.
Preſenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskind ſtage.
But, O ſad Virgin, that thy power
Might raiſe Muſaeus from his bower,
Or bid the ſoul of Orpheus ſing
Such notes as warbled to the ſtring.
Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did ſeek.
Or call up him that left half told
The ſtory of Cambuſcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarſife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glaſs.
And of the wondrous Hors of Braſs,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought els, great Bards beſide▪
In ſage and ſolemn tunes have ſung▪
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung▪
Of Foreſts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant then meets the ear.
Thus night oft ſee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-ſuited Morn appeer,
Not trickt and frounc't as ſhe was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,
But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or uſher'd with a ſhower ſtill,
When the guſt hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruſsling Leaves,
With minute drops from off the Eaves▪
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddes bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And ſhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
Where the rude Ax with heaved ſtroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in cloſe covert by ſom Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's gariſh eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth ſing▪
And the Waters murmuring
With ſuch conſort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let ſom ſtrange myſterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy ſtream,
Of lively portrature diſplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, ſweet muſick breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by ſom ſpirit to mortals good,
Or th'unſeen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the ſtudious Cloyſters pale,
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antick Pillars maſſy proof,
And ſtoried Windows richly dight,
Caſting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems cleer,
As may with ſweetnes, through mine ear,
Diſſolve me into extaſies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes▪
And may at laſt my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Moſſy Cell,
Where I may ſit and rightly ſpell,
Of every Star that Heav'n doth ſhew,
And every Herb that ſips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To ſomthing like Prophetic ſtrain.
Theſe pleaſures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will chooſe to live.