The Poetical Works of John Milton, Volume 30

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Bell and Daldy, 1866
 

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Page 10 - Thy prime decree? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true That light is in the soul, She all in every part; why was the sight To such a tender ball as th
Page 143 - To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise...
Page 86 - What might this be ? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
Page 97 - Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; And, in clear dream and solemn vision, Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear ; Till oft converse with...
Page 215 - 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.
Page 139 - And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of Pine, or monumental Oak, Where the rude Axe with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
Page 214 - CYRIACK, 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.
Page 246 - LET us, with a gladsome mind, Praise the Lord, for he is kind ; For his mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure.
Page 174 - And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol, all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue.
Page 10 - To daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong, Within doors, or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own ; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day! O first created beam, and thou great Word, Let there be light, and light was over all; Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?

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