they cry, "For whom thou hast a tongue, may feel thy praise; But we must understand ere we comply!" Do thou, my soul's soft hope, these triflers awe; he retired to Chalfont in Buckinghamshire on ac- [Then, laughing, they repeat my languid lays count of the plague; and to have been seen in- "Nymphs of thy native clime, perhaps,"-scribed on the glass of a window in that place. I have seen a copy of it written, apparently in a coeval hand, at the end of Tonson's edition of Milton's Smaller Poems in 1713, where it is also said to be Milton's. It is re-printed from Dr. Birch's Life of the poet, in Fawkes and Woty's Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. viii. p. 67. But, in this sonnet, there is a scriptural mistake; which, as Mr. Warton has observed, Milton was not likely to commit. For the Sonnet improperly represents David as punished by pestilence for his adultery with Bathsheba. Mr. Warton, however, adds, that Dr. Birch had been informed by Vertue the engraver, that he had seen a satirical medal, struck upon Charles the Second, abroad, without any legend, having a correspondent device.-This sonnet, I should add, varies from the construction of the legitimate sonnet, in consisting of only ten lines, instead of fourteen. Fair mirrour of foul times! whose fragile sheen, II. In the concluding note on the seventh Sonnet, it has been observed that other Italian sonnets and compositions of Milton, said to be remaining in manuscript at Florence, had been sought for in vain by Mr. Hollis. I think it may not be improper here to observe, that there is a tradition of Milton having fallen in love with a young lady, when he was at Florence; and, as she understood no English, of having written some verses to her in Italian, of which the poem, subjoined to this remark, is said to be the sense. It has often been printed; as in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1760, p. 148; in Fawkes and Woty's Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. viii. p. 68; in the Annual Register for 1772, p. 219; and in the third volume of Milton's poems in the Edition of the Poets, 1779. But to the original no reference is given, and even of the translator no mention is made, in any of those volumes. The poem is entitled, A fragment of Milton, from the Italian. When, in your language, Iunskill'd address The short-pac'd efforts of a trammell'd Muse; Soft Italy's fair critics round me press, And my mistaking passion thus accuse. "Why, to our tongue's disgrace, does thy dumb love Strive, in rough sound, soft meaning to impart? He must select his words who speaks to move, And point his purpose at the hearer's heart." ODES. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY 1. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That he our deadly forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light unsufferable, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, Afford a present to the Infant-God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, See, how from far, upon the eastern road, THE HYMN. It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: 'This ode, in which the many learned allusions are highly poetical, was probably composed as a college-exercise at Cambridge, our author being now only twenty-one years old. In the edition of 1645, in its title it is said to have been written in 1629. It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace; When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook; Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each hea- Nature that heard such sound, Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling, She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slid-To think her part was done, Down through the turning sphere, [ing With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes an universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight That with long beams the shamefac'd night The idle spear and shield were high up hung; And sworded Seraphim, The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with aweful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, His reign of peace upon the Earth began: Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now bath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, [array'd; [play'd, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them For, if such holy song Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, Yea, Truth and Justice then The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue : The brutish gods of Nile as fast, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. through the deep; With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang, [brake: While the red fire and smouldering clouds out The aged Earth aghast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethrens' side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; His god-like acts, and his temptations fierce, Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, There doth my soul in holy vision sit, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. This subject the author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION, Ye flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, That erst with music, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry; For he, being amorous on that lovely dye That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld, Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unwares, with his cold kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair hiding place. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! ' Written in 1625, and first inserted in edition 1673. He was now seventeen, WARTON. Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Resolve me then, oh soul most surely blest, Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good? Or wert thou of the golden-winged host, But oh! why didst thou not stay here below To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart? But thou canst best perform that office where thou art. Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child, This if thou do, he will an offspring give, That, till the world's last end, shall make thy name to live. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And joy shall overtake us as a flood, With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine Of him, to whose happy-making sight alone, AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; That we on Earth, with undiscording voice, To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light! AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER', The honour'd wife of Winchester, 'She was the wife of John marquis of Winchester, a conspicuous loyalist in the reign of king Charles the first, whose magnificent house or castle of Basing in Hampshire withstood an obstinate siege of two years against the rebels, and when taken was levelled to the ground, be. cause in every window was flourished. Aymer Loyaute. |