But first, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her sweetest, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;

Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-fhaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led aftray

Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head the bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the belman's droufy charm,

To blefs the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The fpirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of thofe Demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whole power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Prefenting Thebes', or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the bufkin'd stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raife Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did feek.

Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambufcan bold,

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90

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100

105

110

of

Of Camball, and of Algarfife,

And who had Canacé to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;

And if ought elfe great bards befide

115

In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,

120

Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,

125

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,

When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddefs, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude ax with heaved stroke

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in clofe covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,

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Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,

That at her flowery work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,

With fuch concert as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;

And let fome strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings in aery

ftream

Of lively portraiture display'd,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

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150

And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the ftudious cloyfter's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetnefs, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell

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160

165

170 Of

Of every star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew:
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

175

XV.

ARCADE S*.

Part of an Entertainment prefented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by fome noble perfons of her family, who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the feat of state, with this Song.

L

OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be mistook:

This, this is fhe

To whom our vows and wifhes bend;
Here our folemn fearch hath end.

This poem is only part of an Entertainment, or Mask, as it is alfo intitled in Milton's Manufcript, the rest probably being of a different nature, or composed by a different hand.

Fame,