V.

ON TIME*.

FLY, envions Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace ;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely 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

Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone

When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb;
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,

* In these poems where no date is prefixed, and no circumstances direct us to ascertain the time when they were composed, we follow the order of Milton's own editions. And before this copy of verses, it appears from the manuscript, that the poet had written To be set on a clock-case.

Attir'd with stars, we shall forever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.

VI.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

Ye flaming Pow'rs, 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
Through the soft silence of the list'ning night;
Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your sighs and borrow

Seas wept from our deep sorrow:

He, who with all Heav'n's-heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how soon our sin

Sore doth begin

His infancy to seize!

Omore exceeding love, or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!

For we, by rightful doom remediless,

Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness

And that great covenant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied;

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful jaMice bore for our excess;

Aud seals obedience arst, with wounding smart,

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This day; but O, ere long,

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

VII.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of Syrens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphere born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd pow'r employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce;
And to our high-rais'd phantasy present
That undisturb'd song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solema jubilee;

Where the bright Seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud-uplifted angel-trumpets blow;

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And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

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their great lord, whose love their motion sway'd 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 endless morn of light.

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The hapless babe, before his birth,
Had burial, yet not laid in earth;
And the languish'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip
Sav'd with care from winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew she wears;
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast'ning funeral.

Gentle lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have ;
After this thy travel sore

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Sweet rest seize thee evermore,

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