JOHN MILTON (1608–1674) Milton belonged to a London Puritan family, and when he went up to Cambridge at the end of James I's reign, it was with the intention of becoming a clergyman of the Church of England, in which the Puritans were then a party, hoping to substitute in it government by presbyters, elected by church councils, for government by bishops, appointed by the king. Changes in the administration of the national church under Charles I as well as the development of Milton's own opinions led him to abandon this purpose, towards which all his early training was directed. He has described his serious and studious boyhood in lines 201-7 of Paradise Regained, Book I. He was deeply versed not only in Greek and Latin, but also in Hebrew, and in French and Italian, but his early poems show no sign of the mingling of Christianity and paganism which is characteristic of Renaissance thought. On the other hand, he did not share the later Puritan intolerance of innocent amusements. Two of his earlier poems, Arcades (c. 1630-3) and Comus (1634) and one of his latest, Samson Agonistes (pub. 1671), were in dramatic form; in 1630 he wrote a poem in praise of Shakspere for the folio edition of the plays (see below), and in L'Allegro he speaks appreciatively of both Shakspere's and Jonson's comedies (see p. 238). After seven years at Christ's College, where on account of his almost girlish beauty he was known as our fair lady of Christ's,' he retired for further study to Horton in Buckinghamshire, where his principal early poems were written (1632-7). He then traveled on the Continent to complete his education (1638-9), and was recalled by the political crisis preceding the outbreak of the Civil War. I thought it base,' he wrote later, to be traveling for amusement abroad while my fellow citizens were fighting for liberty at home.' Milton fought, not with the sword, but with the pen. He perceived that there were three species of liberty which are essential to the happiness of social life religious, domestic and civil.' In 1641-2 he took an active part in the controversy that was raging as to the government of the Church by bishops, which appeared to him contrary to religious liberty. His marriage in 1643 to Mary Powell, daughter of a Cavalier and half his own age, turned out unhappily; she found life with the poet and pamphleteer very solitary' and too philosophical,' and after a month's experience of it returned to her father's house. This led Milton to publish a series of pamphlets in favor of divorce, and he was said to be contemplating a marriage with Miss Davis, the virtuous young lady' of Sonnet IX (see p. 242) but, when this came to his wife's ears, she sought and obtained a reconciliation. In 1644 he wrote two important tracts one on education, and another on the freedom of the press (Areopagitica). In 1649 he took up the defence of the Commonwealth for the execution of Charles I, and as Latin Secretary to the Council of State continued his task with a devotion which involved the sacrifice of his eye-sight (see Sonnets, pp. 243-4). His pen was still active on behalf of religious toleration and republican government when the Restoration drove him into hiding; he was arrested, but suffered no harm beyond a short imprisonment and the burning of his books by the hangman. He lost, of course, his Latin secretaryship, and the destruction of some of his property by the fire of London brought him into straitened circumstances; but his tastes were simple, and bating not a jot of heart or hope' he returned to his studies. He wrote a history, a logic, a Latin grammar, a compendium of theology; but the great works of his later years were Paradise Lost (published 1667), and Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes (1671). He chose the subject of Paradise Lost out of some hundred which he jotted down about 1640, and wrote a small part of it, but the great design was interrupted by the Civil War, resumed in 1658, and completed in 1663 or 1665. ON SHAKSPERE What needs my Shakspere for his honored The labor of an age in pilèd stones? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of Thou in our wonder and astonishment Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 10 15 20 Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 50 5 60 65 And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. And in thy right hand lead with thee To live with her, and live with thee, To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 30 Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves, 85 Or, if the earlier season lead, 105 How fairy Mab the junkets eat; 115 120 125 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 130 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain 135 140 Such as the meeting soul may pierce That Orpheus' self may heave his head, 145 These delights if thou canst give, IL PENSEROSO Hence, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly, without father bred! How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! 150 Forget thyself to marble, till, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. 50 And the mute silence hist along, 55 60 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, I woo, to hear thy even-song; 65 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 75 80 Save the cricket on the hearth," Or the bellman's drowsy charm Hide me from day's garish eye, To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, While the bee, with honied thigh, 85 Ee seen in some high lonely tower Where I may oft outwatch 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 h fire, air, flood, or underground, Whose power hath a true consent, With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy, a sceptered pall, come sweeping by, Fresenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine, Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O, sad virgin! that thy power light raise Musæus from his bower; bid the soul of Orpheus sing ich notes as, warbled to the string, rew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, nd made hell grant what love did seek; call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canacé to wife hat owned the virtuous ring and glass, nd of the wondrous horse of brass, which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards beside sage and solemn tunes have sung, f tourneys, and of trophies hung, 100 Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 155 160 To the full-voiced choir below 115 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 shew, 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. 170 175 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 26 We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 31 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? (That last infirmity of noble mind) 70 To scorn delights and live laborious days: But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to. burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears 75 And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,' Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor grown, 40 |