JOHN MILTON

In Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by, Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line, Or the tale of Troy divine. Or what (though rare) of later age, Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musseus from his bower Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as warbled to the string, Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what Love did seek. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass, And of the wondrous Hors of Brass, On which the Tartar King did ride ; And if ought els, great Bards beside, In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of Turneys and of Trophies hung ; Of Forests, and inchantments drear, Where more is meant then meets the ear. Thus night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appeer, Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont, With the Attick Boy to hunt, But CherchePt in a comly Cloud, While rocking Winds are Piping loud, Or usher' d with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the russling Leaves, With minute drops from off the Eaves.

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