Chapter 322
As children gathering pebbles on the shore.
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SAMSON AGONISTES.
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Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men.
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He's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words, by adding fuel to the flame?
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COMUS.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues, that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
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Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
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Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?
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Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul And lap it in Elysium.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' th' center and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the midday sun,
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How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose; But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.
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I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the rib of Death.
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LYCIDAS.
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He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
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Without the meed of some melodious tear.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble minds) 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 abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life.
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Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark.
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The pilot of the Galilean lake.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
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L'ALLEGRO.
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Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.
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Come, and trip it as you go, On the light, fantastic toe.
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And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
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Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.
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Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
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IL PENSEROSO.
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And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.
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Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
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Such notes, as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.
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Where more is meant than meets the ear.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim, religious light.
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_Sonnet to the Lady Margaret Ley_.
That old man eloquent.
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_Sonnet on his Blindness_.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
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_Second Sonnet to Cyriac Skinner_.
Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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_Sonnet on his Deceased Wife_.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night.
SAMUEL BUTLER. 1612-1680.
_Hudibras_.