Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 113

BOOK SECOND
113 IL PENSEROSO

Hence, vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred!
How little you bestead
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!

Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:
Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain:
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn

Over thy decent shoulders drawn
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired Leisure
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song
In her sweetest saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
-Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly.
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering Moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide-water'd shore,

Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine;
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, 0 sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
Or call up him that left half-told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride:

And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
With the Attic Boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves
With minute drops from off the eaves.
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.
There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid:
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy-proof,
And storied windows richly dight
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring Heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
J. MILTON.

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE Hence, vain deluding joys, what is brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill what is fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As what is gay motes that people what is sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams what is fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit what is sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above what is sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain: Of where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 113 where is strong BOOK SECOND where is strong 113 IL PENSEROSO where is p align="justify" Hence, vain deluding joys, what is brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill what is fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As what is gay motes that people what is sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams what is fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit what is sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above what is sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain: Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with what is skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on what is earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears what is Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, what is cherub Contemplation; And what is mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing what is rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er what is accustom'd oak. -Sweet bird, that shunn'st what is noise of folly. Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, what is woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On what is dry smooth-shaven green, To behold what is wandering Moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through what is heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground I hear what is far-off curfew sound Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if what is air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through what is room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save what is cricket on the hearth, Or what is bellman's drowsy charm To bless what is doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere what is spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold what is immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those bad spirit s that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or what is tale of Troy divine; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath what is buskin'd stage. But, 0 sad natural , that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid what is soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to what is string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek And made fun grant what what time is it did seek! Or call up him that left half-told what is story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd what is virtuous ring and glass; And of what is wondrous horse of brass On which what is Tartar king did ride: And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets what is ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on what is rustling leaves With minute drops from off what is eaves. And when what is 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 what is rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard what is nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by some brook Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While what is bee with honey'd thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And what is waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep Entice what is dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid: And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or what is unseen Genius of what is wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk what is studious cloister's pale, And what time is it what is high-embowed roof, With antique pillars massy-proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light: There let what is pealing organ blow To what is full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out what is peaceful hermitage, what is hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips what is dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live. J. MILTON. where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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