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# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/At a Solemn Musick

At a solemn Musick.
BLest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy, Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers, Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce, And to our high-rais'd phantasie present, That undisturbed Song of pure content, Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne To him that sits theron With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily, Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow, And the Cherubick host in thousand quires Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms, Hymns devout and holy Psalms Singing everlastingly; That we on Earth with undiscording voice May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin Jarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair musick that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood In first obedience, and their state of good. O may we soon again renew that Song, And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long To his celestial consort us unite, To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/On May Morning

SONG On May morning.
NOw the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Mirth and youth, and warm desire, Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing, Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early Song, And welcom thee, and wish thee long.
# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/On Shakespear

Written: 1630, Published: 1632. Milton's first published poem.
On Shakespear. 1630.
WHat needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones, The labour of an age in piled Stones, Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thy self a live-long Monument. For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book, Those Delphick lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving, Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving; And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie, That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/Lycidas

Lycidas.
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# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/On Time

On Time.
FLy envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain, And meerly mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the supreme Throne Of him, t'whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime, Then all this Earthy grosnes quit, Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time,
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/On the Morning of Christ's Nativity

On the morning of Christs Nativity. Compos'd 1629.
I.
Wherin the Son of Heav'ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
II.
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherwith he wont at Heav'ns high Councel-Table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside; and here with us to be,
Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,
And chose with us a darksom House of mortal Clay.
III.
Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn strein, To welcom him to this his new abode, Now while the Heav'n, by the Suns team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
IV.
The star-led Wizards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And joyn thy voice unto the Angel Quire, From out his secret Altar toucht with hallow'd fire.
# Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, Compos'd at several times/On the University Carrier

After the death of Thomas Hobson on January 1, 1631
On the University Carrier who sickn'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the Plague
HEre lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt, A here alas, hath laid him in the dirt, Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time this ten yeers full, Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. And surely, Death could never have prevail'd, Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd; But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journeys end was come, And that he had tane up his latest Inne, In the kind office of a Chamberlin Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light: If any ask for him, it shall be sed, Hobson has supt, and's newly gon to bed.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/My Love

MY LOVE.
Love thee? I must! not the great sea Ever heaves upward to the moon As my soul lifts itself to thee, Drawn by the magic of thine own. My heart is like a fountain springing In shadow of some lonely tree, Its constant streams and ceaseless singing, Murmur and flow alone to thee.
I would I did not love thee so, Lest God should desolate the shrine, And lay the glorious image low So like to His, so like to thine! And could I deem the light that now Halos h y being would depart, I would unsay my holy vow, Though it in breaking broke my heart.
But thou, thou never sure canst be Less of a glory than this hour, And my soul rests relyingly On thine, as on a nobler power. Day's glorious morn, her holy eve, The grand, the beautiful, the bright, Each in the soul's existence weave New thoughts of thee like rays of light.
Such love as this will burn till life Has darkened in its narrow cell, And calmly 'mid the world's fierce strife, As sheltered in some fairy dell. I only ask that thou wilt be What now thou art, for evermore, Peerless, yet bright'ning constantly, As soul refining leaves its ore.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/My Soul is Dark

"MY SOUL IS DARK."
Ever down Time's rapid river, Toward the distant, dim Forever, Ceasing not, and ceasing never— From this mortal shore, Is our life forever sliding, Gliding still, and ever gliding, With no pause, and no abiding, Till Time's tide is o'er.
I am sitting in the glimmer Of the twilight growing dimmer, As the stars begin to shimmer Through the darkening blue; And my soul is sad to weeping, With the memories 'tis keeping, Memories that know no sleeping, No nepenthean dew.
Life's frail bark is onward drifting, Where care's stormy winds are shifting, And no cloud of darkness lifting Lets the light shine through; Backward do I look with yearning, My sad soul intensely burning, But for me there is no turning— Onward I must go.
Onward borne, but backward looking, While my anguished soul is brooking All the gentle, sad rebuking Of the Past's dim face; Forms from memory’s shore entreating, Beckon me unto their meeting, But I can not—farther ﬂeeting From each dear embrace.
​Lo! the parting distance groweth, And the river deeper floweth, And the sky no signal showeth All is dark and drear; Without oar or pilot floating— Fearful is such lonely boating, Where, unseen, the ear is noting Mighty depths a-near!
Hark! I hear the river's pouring, Mingling with the ocean's roaring— God! I lift to Thee imploring My benighted heart; Be thou with me on life's river, Guide me to the great Forever— Light, and Help, and Glory ever, Thou my Pharos art!
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Queen Mary's Lover

QUEEN MARY'S LOVER.
Thine the warrant, lovely Mary, thine the hand that writes my doom! Thou shalt see how dies a lover when his mistress opes his tomb; Matchless Mary, divine Mary, Love's and Beauty's peerless queen, Death has not a pang to daunt me, not a terror that can haunt me; What thou sendest to me, Mary, I can meet with smiling mien.
Call me not an impious traitor! he who loves so well as I Hell nor heaven could make disloyal, though his madness make him die. Heaven preserve thee when I perish other friends that are as true; Traitors' gilded snares may find thee, and their cunning toils may bind thee. Then may love like mine, O Mary, live to show its truth to you.
​Thou hast saved thine honor, Mary; thou hast kept thy stainless name; Be my loyal blood the voucher for thy spotlessness of fame; But its worth will be diminished by the price which thou hast given, And thy secret heart rebelling, to thy soul will ere be telling That thy truest lover waits thee on the confines of his heaven.
Was I a traitor, O blest Mary, when I saw thee kneeling there In thy chamber's holy silence, sending up thy evening prayer? Not the holy Virgin Mother could more pure or glorious seem; And when from thy lips ascending, my name with thy God's was blending— Mary, Mary, as immortal as my soul will be that dream!
Did I wrong her whom I worshiped, was her beauty made profane? Let my life-blood pay the penance, and remove the blushing stain; Still the daring sin committed which the queen can not forgive, In thy woman's soul repenting, finds a generous relenting, Which while it would slay the subject, would still bid the lover live.
God protect thee, beauteous princess, when the faithful are no more, God's guiding angels pilot thee to Time's eternal shore; Though thy subject, Mary, fears not death, his heart doth sorely bleed, For the future opes before him, and the prophet's vail falls o'er him, And he sees for thee, sweet, hapless queen, a "time and hour of need."
The sullen bell is tolling that calls me to my doom; Another morning's sun will shine upon thy lover's tomb; I see thee at thy casement high, thy face bedewed with tears— O fare-thee-well, my soul's bright queen, this sight divine that I have seen, Of Mary weeping at my death, is worth a life of years!
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Madeline

MADELINE.
I never saw aught like to what thou art— A spirit so peculiar in its mould, With so much wildness, and with yet a part Of all the softer beauties we behold: So dark and still at times, thy spirit seeming Like waters sheltered from the shining sun, Hidden in the dim mantle of its dreaming, As if it joyed all earthliness to shun;
And yet again, emerging from its dream Thy soul shines forth, pellucid as the air; And O so lovely and so bright, we deem That mortal sprite could never be so fair! Thy thoughts in their rare current stilly gliding Glimmer so starrily through thy pure eyes, Revealing glimpses of the heart's wealth hiding Within their depths, gem-bedded like the skies.
​Thy form seems moulded in thy soul's own grace— Adapted to express each subtile thought— So fair and lucid is thy lily face, Thy motion with such witchery is fraught. There is so much in every act of thine, That tells thy soul keepeth an angel guard, Their glorious wings do almost seem to shine A heavenly halo round their lovely ward.
Alas! when I do gaze on thee, my spirit Longeth for Paradise, and vaguely dreams, Wondering if there itself will not inherit Some of such brightness as around thee beams: Surely the music, and the unfading flowers, And forms of light that walk the courts of heaven, Do fill thy visions in thy musing hours, So that to thee their semblance has been given.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/One of Our Poets

ONE OF OUR POETS.
Oft my fancy draws the picture, and for evermore he seems Sitting silent in his chamber, brooding o'er his wondrous dreams; Sitting motionless and weaving visions in his mighty brain— Visions soft, and pure, and glowing, and with scarce an earthly stain— Weaving into them his being, all its pleasures and its pain.
Coyly through the open casement steals the fragrant air of June, Humming to itself the murmur of the woodland's pleasant tune; Lifting up the silken curtain, through which comes the ruby tinge Glowing in the chamber's twilight, toying with the golden fringe, Prisoning the window-roses in its tassel-tangled swinge.
Fitful gleams of yellow sunlight flash across the velvet floor, As the breeze in rising gladness lifts the curtain more and more, And a smile seems stealing over the dim faces in the room, 'Till the pictured wall looks breathing through the soft and dreamy gloom. Antique jewels seem to sparkle, and to wave the bending plume.
Nothing cares the silent dreamer that those pictures, old and dim, Give more sense of life and motion to the gazer's eye than him; Little heeds he sun or shadow, pleasant sounds or fragrant air; He is in a world whose visions are a thousand times more fair, Musing, speechless with enchantment, on the glorious beauties there.
More and more the curtain flutters, and upon the dreamer's hair Falls the crimson glow of sunset, resting in a halo there; On a brow so proud and pensive fitly placed the glory seems— Looking like the lingering radiance borrowed in his land of dreams, Broken, as the curtain flutters, into bright and changing gleams.
​But anon the sun is setting, and the breeze has died away, And the curtain and the sunbeam cease to quiver and to play, And the spell so deeply woven round the dreamer seems to part, Till the tide of life comes rushing faster from his fettered heart, And his own unconscious murmurs wake him with a sudden start.
Hard upon his fevered eyelids presses he his trembling hand, While a troop of white-winged visions vanish at his sad command; Still he murmurs lightly to them, whispers to them o'er and o'er, As he paces, in the twilight, noiselessly the chamber floor, Murmuring ever, like a river, one same sound, and that Lenore!
Talking to his love in heaven, she who never leaves his side, Hovering near, a winged spirit, still his angel and his bride; Counting ceaselessly the hoarded treasures of his memory's store; Burning out his heart in incense at the shrine he loved of yore, Haunted by the "rare and radiant" maiden of his heart, Lenore.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Resolution

RESOLUTION.
Room, room for the freed spirit! Let it fling Its pinions worn with bondage once more wide, And if in earth or air there is a thing To stay its soaring, let the heavens chide! Away, the silken bondage of young dreams; No more in gentle dalliance I'll lay My hand upon my lute, like one who seems In half unconscious idleness to play.
But all there is in me of living soul, Of high, proud daring, or of untried trust, Shall not be subject longer to control; For my desire is upward, and I must Spurn back the fetters of the slothful past As a loosed captive tramples on his chain; From now, henceforth, my destiny is cast, And what I will, I surely shall attain.
Onward and upward! strengthening in their flight, My thoughts must "all be eagle thoughts," nor bend Their pinions downward, until on the height That nurses Helicon's pure fount I stand. Onward, my soul! nor either shrink nor turn, Be cold to pleasure and be calm to pain; However much the yielding heart may yearn. Listen not, listen not, it is in vain!
Upward! "a feeling like the sense of wings," A proud, triumphant feeling buoys me up, And my soul drinks refreshment from the streams That fill forever joy's enchanted cup. A glorious sense of power within me lies, A knowledge of my yet untested strength, And my impatient spirit only sighs For the far goal to be attained at length.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Lella

LELLA.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Love

LOVE.
I can not love the happy: those who seem Never to have known sorrow, from whose hearts Gushes continually the caroling Of thoughtless pleasure; unless it be the joy— The glad and innocent mirth of children— Bursting in happiness from out pure hearts Fresh from the hand of Deity. But man, Who has seen life, beheld its miseries, Whose thoughts have reached the compass of ripe years, ​Should have within his heart a ceaseless spring Of gentle and out-welling sympathies; And they should course throughout his spirt's being, As mountain rivulets traverse the earth— Refreshing in their course each drooping flower— Renewing beauty in each withered plant— And helping everywhere to germinate The seeds of virtue.
And thus would mirth be chaste, and life be joy, And all our wild propensities be checked; And all our eagerness for gaudy show, That so contrasts with pale-cheeked suffering, Would die. This would be real happiness! And those whom purity makes sensitive Would shrink no more, but ivy-like entwine The tendrils of affection round strong hearts. Love is a byword—friendship but a name— And though we use them, rarely do we think How strong, and deep, and thrilling is their power! "God is love!" it is His very essence; And yet the spirit of the Godhead man Treats mockingly, and makes a jest of all The gentler and the purer attributes Of soul! O that the spirit of true love, Untrammeled, unrestrained, might wander forth, Breathing a balm on every bleeding heart— Binding up wounds—forgiving injury— And by uniting each dissevered link, Encircle the great family of man In one electric chain of sympathy! Then would our earth again be Paradise, And man, though heir to suffering, yet soothed By gentleness and love, would be more chaste— Like gold tried by refiners—and more fit To win his great inheritance of love, And life eternal!
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Night Whispers

NIGHT WHISPERS.
O what a night is this! The glorious stars With their sweet, solemn gaze, seeming to look Into our very souls. Gently! it mars The lovely dream if even a word be spoke, That comes not like soft music to the ear, Murmured, and low, and making harmony With the still music of that higher sphere— So let no discord break the melody.
This is the hour for soul-communion meet; For talking of dear loves and holy things; Of themes that to the spirit are most sweet, And for the full heart's sweet unburdenings. I can almost imagine that my heart Hath grown too holy for a sinful thought; So much the gentle images that start From past and present with this hour are fraught.
The past hath memories of the dear dreams Of early years—of longings after love— Something to fill the heart, to drink its streams Of pure and earnest tenderness—inwove With visions of the future, which were blent Of hope and trust, the trust of our first years, Which ne'er returns when once it hath been lent To a false faith, to be dissolved in tears.
That glowing dream is not yet wholly fled, But its fair hues have taken a deeper dye; As the pale light the twilight stars have shed, Is deepened to full radiance in the sky. ​The heart still sadly longeth, and in vain; For earth is insufficient to its love, And many a wild and startling thrill of pain, Its too keen sensitiveness still doth prove.
But there is such a joy, a joy so sweet— So pure a transport in an hour like this— When heart from heart an answering throb may meet, In union to which silence adds a bliss; When the soft clasp of a caressing hand, Or the clear glance of an expressive eye, Can make the mutual spirit understand All the fine thoughts that in its depths may lie.
Our pleasures are so sweet that we forget That we have grieved for suffering or sin, And only feel a sad and soft regret That all is not forever thus within. O night! thy solemn beauty fills my soul With a deep rapture, not unlike to prayer; Delicious joy, which I would not control, And only to be perfect need to share.
If there are hours when the soul receives On its unwritten pages worlds of thought, Methinks that now some spirit's spotless leaves Full many a bright imagining hath caught; And many a note of song, the voiceless song Of the soul, mingled with the viewless choir Thrilling all nature, and whose tones belong To the great Source that nature doth inspire.
# Phoenician Women (Euripides)

* related portals: Ancient Greek drama.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Φοίνισσαι (Phoinissai, Latin: Phoenissae) is a tragedy by the playwright Euripides. In the play, a group of Phoenician women on their way to Delphi are trapped in Thebes by the war. The play is based upon the same story as Aeschylus' play Seven against Thebes.
English-language translations of Φοίνισσαι include:
* The Phœnician Virgins, translated by Robert Potter (1781, 1783) 1st ed.
* The Phœnician Virgins, translated by T. A. Buckley (1858)
* The Phœnician Maidens, translated from the Paley text by E. P. Coleridge in The Plays of Euripides (1891) 1913 printing
* The Phœnician Maidens, translated by Arthur S. Way in The Tragedies of Euripides, in English verse (1898)
This work is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago. Translations of this work may be copyrighted.
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# Phoenician Women

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Phoenician Women."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Phoenician Women, a play by Euripides. Multiple English translations exist.
* Phoenician Women, a play by Seneca the Younger. Multiple English translations exist.
# Phoenician Women (Seneca)

* related portals: Drama.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Seneca's tragedy Phoenissae ("Phoenician Women"), also called Thebaïs, is based on the play of the same name by Euripides.
English-language translations of Phoenissae include:
* Thebais, translated by Thomas Newton in Seneca, his tenne tragedies, translated into Englyſh (1581)
* Phœnissæ or Thebais, translated by Watson Bradshaw (1902)
* Phoenissae or Thebaïs, translated by Frank Justus Miller (1907)
This work is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago. Translations of this work may be copyrighted.
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