Lycidas

Lycidas

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BY JOHN MILTON

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forc'd fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 

Compels me to disturb your season due; 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 

He must not float upon his wat'ry bier 

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

      Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! 

So may some gentle muse 

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, 

And as he passes turn 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! 

      For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, 

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; 

Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 

We drove afield, and both together heard 

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 

Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 

Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright 

Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 

Temper'd to th'oaten flute; 

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, 

From the glad sound would not be absent long; 

And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. 

      But O the heavy change now thou art gone, 

Now thou art gone, and never must return! 

Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 

And all their echoes mourn. 

The willows and the hazel copses green 

Shall now no more be seen 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 

Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear 

When first the white thorn blows: 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

      Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Ay me! I fondly dream 

Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? 

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal nature did lament, 

When by the rout that made the hideous roar 

His gory visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? 

      Alas! what boots it with incessant care 

To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

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 th'abhorred shears, 

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," 

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; 

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." 

      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, 

That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 

But now my oat proceeds, 

And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 

That came in Neptune's plea. 

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 

"What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" 

And question'd every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked promontory. 

They knew not of his story; 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 

Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 

"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" 

Last came, and last did go, 

The Pilot of the Galilean lake; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: 

"How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, 

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? 

Of other care they little reck'ning make 

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 

And when they list their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 

But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said, 

But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more". 

      Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past 

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 

And call the vales and bid them hither cast 

Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, 

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honied showers 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 

Where the great vision of the guarded mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: 

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; 

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; 

Where, other groves and other streams along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 

There entertain him all the Saints above, 

In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 

That sing, and singing in their glory move, 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 

To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

      Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, 

While the still morn went out with sandals gray; 

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; 

And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 

And now was dropp'd into the western bay; 

At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: 

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 

John Milton was born in London on December 9, 1608, into a middle-class family. He was educated at St. Paul’s School, then at Christ’s College, Cambridge, where he began to write poetry in Latin, Italian, and English, and prepared to enter the clergy.

After university, however, he abandoned his plans to join the priesthood and spent the next six years in his father’s country home in Buckinghamshire following a rigorous course of independent study to prepare for a career as a poet. His extensive reading included both classical and modern works of religion, science, philosophy, history, politics, and literature. In addition, Milton was proficient in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, and Italian, and obtained a familiarity with Old English and Dutch as well.

During his period of private study, Milton composed a number of poems, including "On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity," "On Shakespeare," “L’Allegro," “Il Penseroso," and the pastoral elegy "Lycidas.” In May of 1638, Milton began a 13-month tour of France and Italy, during which he met many important intellectuals and influential people, including the astronomer Galileo, who appears in Milton’s tract against censorship, “Areopagitica.”

In 1642, Milton returned from a trip into the countryside with a 16-year-old bride, Mary Powell. Even though they were estranged for most of their marriage, she bore him three daughters and a son before her death in 1652. Milton later married twice more: Katherine Woodcock in 1656, who died giving birth in 1658, and Elizabeth Minshull in 1662.

During the English Civil War, Milton championed the cause of the Puritans and Oliver Cromwell, and wrote a series of pamphlets advocating radical political topics including the morality of divorce, the freedom of the press, populism, and sanctioned regicide. Milton served as secretary for foreign languages in Cromwell’s government, composing official statements defending the Commonwealth. During this time, Milton steadily lost his eyesight, and was completely blind by 1651. He continued his duties, however, with the aid of Andrew Marvell and other assistants.

After the Restoration of Charles II to the throne in 1660, Milton was arrested as a defender of the Commonwealth, fined, and soon released. He lived the rest of his life in seclusion in the country, completing the blank-verse epic poem Paradise Lost in 1667, as well as its sequel Paradise Regained and the tragedy Samson Agonistes both in 1671. Milton oversaw the printing of a second edition of Paradise Lost in 1674, which included an explanation of “why the poem rhymes not," clarifying his use of blank verse, along with introductory notes by Marvell. He died shortly afterwards, on November 8, 1674, in Buckinghamshire, England.

Paradise Lost, which chronicles Satan’s temptation of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from Eden, is widely regarded as his masterpiece and one of the greatest epic poems in world literature. Since its first publication, the work has continually elicited debate regarding its theological themes, political commentary, and its depiction of the fallen angel Satan who is often viewed as the protagonist of the work.

The epic has had wide-reaching effect, inspiring other long poems, such as Alexander Pope‘s The Rape of the Lock,William Wordsworth‘s The Prelude and John Keats‘sEndymion, as well as Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, and deeply influencing the work of Percy Bysshe Shelley andWilliam Blake, who illustrated an edition of the epic.