textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/MILTON/milton-l-523.txt

                                      1632
                                   L'ALLEGRO
                                 by John Milton

  Hence loathed Melancholy
    Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,
  In Stygian Cave forlorn
    'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy,
  Find out som uncouth cell,
    Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
  And the night-Raven sings;
    There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks,
  As ragged as thy Locks,
    In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
  But com thou Goddes fair and free,
  In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,
  And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
  Whom lovely Venus at a birth
  With two sister Graces more
  To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
  Or whether (as som Sager sing)
  The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
  Zephir with Aurora playing,
  As he met her once a Maying,
  There on Beds of Violets blew,
  And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
  Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
  So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
  Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
  Jest and youthful Jollity,
  Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
  Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
  Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
  And love to live in dimple sleek;
  Sport that wrincled Care derides,
  And Laughter holding both his sides.
  Com, and trip it as ye go
  On the light fantastick toe,
  And in thy right hand lead with thee,
  The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
  And if I give thee honour due,
  Mirth, admit me of thy crue
  To live with her, and live with thee,
  In unreproved pleasures free;
  To hear the Lark begin his flight,
  And singing startle the dull night,
  From his watch-towre in the skies,
  Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
  Then to com in spight of sorrow,
  And at my window bid good morrow,
  Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
  Or the twisted Eglantine.
  While the Cock with lively din,
  Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
  And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
  Stoutly struts his Dames before,
  Oft list'ning how the Hounds and horn
  Clearly rouse the slumbring morn,
  From the side of som Hoar Hill,
  Through the high wood echoing shrill.
  Som time walking not unseen
  By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
  Right against the Eastern gate,
  Wher the great Sun begins his state,
  Rob'd in flames, and Amber light,
  The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
  While the Plowman neer at hand,
  Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,
  And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
  And the Mower whets his sithe,
  And every Shepherd tells his tale
  Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
  Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
  Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
  Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
  Where the nibling flocks do stray,
  Mountains on whose barren brest
  The labouring clouds do often rest:
  Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
  Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
  Towers, and Battlements it sees
  Boosom'd high in tufted Trees,
  Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
  The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
  Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
  From betwixt two aged Okes,
  Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
  Are at their savory dinner set
  Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
  Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
  And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
  With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
  Or if the earlier season lead
  To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead,
  Som times with secure delight
  The up-land Hamlets will invite,
  When the merry Bells ring round,
  And the jocond rebecks sound
  To many a youth, and many a maid,
  Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;
  And young and old com forth to play
  On a Sunshine Holyday,
  Till the live-long day-light fail,
  Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
  With stories told many a feat,
  How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
  She was pincht, and pull'd she sed,
  And he by Friars Lanthorn led
  Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
  To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
  When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
  His shadowy Flale hath thresh'd the Corn
  That ten day-labourers could not end,
  Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend.
  And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,
  Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
  And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
  Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.
  Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
  By whispering Windes soon lull'd asleep.
  Towred Cities please us then,
  And the busie humm of men,
  Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
  In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
  With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
  Rain influence, and judge the prise
  Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
  To win her Grace, whom all commend.
  There let Hymen oft appear
  In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
  And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
  With mask, and antique Pageantry,
  Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
  On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
  Then to the well-trod stage anon,
  If Jonsons learned Sock be on,
  Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
  Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
  And ever against eating Cares,
  Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
  Married to immortal verse
  Such as the meeting soul may pierce
  In notes, with many a winding bout
  Of lincked sweetnes long drawn out,
  With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
  The melting voice through mazes running;
  Untwisting all the chains that ty
  The hidden soul of harmony.
  That Orpheus self may heave his head
  From golden slumber on a bed
  Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
  Such streins as would have won the ear
  Of Pluto, to have quite set free
  His half regain'd Eurydice.
  These delights, if thou canst give,
  Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

             -THE END-
.