Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day! To midnight dances and the public show; What though no sacred earth allow thee room, So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, A heap of dust alone remains of thee; Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. E'en he whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle bus'ness at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! L'ALLEGRO. BY MILTON. HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Ceberus and blackest Midnight born, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness 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. "Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day! To midnight dances and the public show; What though no sacred earth allow thee room, So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, A heap of dust alone remains of thee; Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. E'en he whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle bus'ness at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! L'ALLEGRO. BY MILTON. HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Ceberus and blackest Midnight born, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-bro As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever |