Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; Makes those, and my beloved beet, 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering With guiltless mirth, Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Besides healthful ewes to bear my Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine All these, and better thou dost send That I should render, for my part, Which, fired with incense, I resign, II. FAITH AND FREEDOM: JOHN MILTON 1. THE MAKER OF AN HEROIC POEM HIMSELF A TRUE POEM [From An Apology for Smectymnuus, 1642] Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to themselves such a reward as the noblest dispositions above other things in this life have sometimes preferred; whereof not to be sensible when good and fair in one person meet argues both a gross and shallow judgment, and withal an ungentle and swainish breast. For by the firm settling of these persuasions, I became, to my best memory, so much a proficient, that if I found those authors anywhere speaking unworthy things of themselves, or unchaste of those names which before they had extolled; this effect it wrought with me, 119 from that time forward their art I still applauded, but the men I deplored; and above them all, preferred the two famous renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write but honor of them to whom they devote their verse, displaying sublime and pure thoughts, without transgression. And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem; that is, a composition and pattern of the best and honorablest things; not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men or famous cities unless he have in himself the experience and the practice of all that which is praiseworthy. . . . Next, (for hear me out now, readers,) that I may tell ye whither my younger feet wandered; I betook me among those lofty fables and romances, which recount in solemn cantos the deeds of knighthood founded by our victorious kings, and from hence had in renown over all Christendom. There I read it in the oath of every knight, that he should defend to the expense of his best blood, or of his life, if it so befell him, the honor and chastity of virgin or matron; from whence even then I learned what a noble virtue chastity sure must be, to the defence of which so many worthies, by such a dear adventure of themselves, had sworn. And if I found in the story afterward, any of them, by word or deed, breaking that oath, I judged it the same fault of the poet, as that which is attributed to Homer, to have written indecent things of the gods. Only this my mind gave me, that every free and gentle spirit, without that oath, ought to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur, or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder to stir him up both by his counsel and his arms, to secure and protect the weakness of any attempted chastity. . Thus, from the laureat fraternity of poets, riper years and the ceaseless round of study and reading led me to the shady spaces of philosophy; but chiefly to the divine volumes of Plato, and his equal Xenophon: where, if I should tell ye what I learnt of chastity and love, I mean that which is truly so, whose charming cup is only virtue, which she bears in her hand to those who are worthy; (the rest are cheated with a thick intoxicating potion, which a certain sorceress, the abuser of love's name, carries about;) and how the first and chiefest office of love begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, knowledge and virtue. [From A Letter to Diodati, 1637] But that you may indulge any excess of menace I must inform you, that I cannot help loving you such as you are; for whatever the Deity may have bestowed upon me in other respects, he has certainly inspired me, if any ever were inspired, with a passion for the good and fair. Nor did Ceres, according to the fable, ever seek her daughter Proserpine with such unceasing solicitude, as I have sought this perfect model of the beautiful in all the forms and appearances of things. I am wont day and night to continue my search, and I follow in the way in which you go before. Hence, I feel an irresistible impulse to cultivate the friendship of him who, despising the prejudices and false conceptions of the vulgar, dares to think, to speak, and to be that which the highest wisdom has in every age taught to be the best. But if my disposition or my destiny were such that I could without any conflict or any toil emerge to the highest pitch of distinction and of praise, there would nevertheless be no prohibition, either human or divine, against my constantly cherishing and revering those who have either obtained the same degree of glory, or are successfully laboring to obtain it. But now I am sure that you wish me to gratify your curiosity, and to let you know what I have been doing, or am meditating to do. Hear me, my Diodati, and suffer me for a moment to speak without blushing in a more lofty strain. Do you ask what I am meditating? By the help of Heaven, an immortality of fame. L'ALLEGRO Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, 5 15 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 20 25 Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, And love to live in dimple sleek; And Laughter holding both his sides. On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; To live with her, and live with thee, 30 35 40 Where Corydon and Thyrsis met Of herbs and other country messes, To the tanned haycock in the mead. And young and old come forth to play 85 90 95 'Till the livelong daylight fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat, 45 How faery Mab the junkets eat. While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, Oft listening how the hounds and horn 50 55 60 65 105 110 She was pinched and pulled, she said; And the busy hum of men, 115 120 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In saffron robe, with taper clear, Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above 75 20 The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. His daughter she (in Saturn's reign All in a robe of darkest grain, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the air will not permit, 25 Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm 30 35 With planet or with element. Or what (though rare) of later age The story of Cambusean bold, 100 105 110 115 That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 120 130 While rocking winds are piping loud, 135 110 While the bee with honeyed thigh, Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, 20 And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, |