The Anniversaries Poems in Commemoration of Great Men and Great Events. By Thomas H. Gill |
 |
December 9.
|
 | The Anniversaries |  |
169
December 9.
MILTON.
“He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter
in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem.”—
Milton,
Apology for Smectymnuus.
O! not to-day, mine England, with proud eye
Thy retinue of subject realms survey,
Nor set, for blazon of thy majesty,
Thy thousand years of freedom in array!
O gather round for royal robe to-day
The glory of thy sovereign spirit bright,
Yes, bathe in the full stream of thine own Milton's light!
Thy retinue of subject realms survey,
Nor set, for blazon of thy majesty,
Thy thousand years of freedom in array!
O gather round for royal robe to-day
The glory of thy sovereign spirit bright,
Yes, bathe in the full stream of thine own Milton's light!
Bright burst that golden river; on it went
Golden and glorious seaward from its spring.
O young, melodious soul, divinely bent
Thy myrrh and gold the Blessed Babe to bring,
Almost the harmonious angels to outsing!
Meet service for that stainless youth of thine
To greet the Holy Child, to hymn the Birth Divine!
Golden and glorious seaward from its spring.
170
Thy myrrh and gold the Blessed Babe to bring,
Almost the harmonious angels to outsing!
Meet service for that stainless youth of thine
To greet the Holy Child, to hymn the Birth Divine!
O! dweller bright in England's happy vales,
How steeped her fragrant breath thy heart! how stole
Thy strain the sweet song of her nightingales,
The full bloom of her roses! how thy soul
Its glory o'er her woodlands would unroll,
People their green paths with heroic grace,
And build 'midst their thick glooms fair Virtue's Holy Place!
How steeped her fragrant breath thy heart! how stole
Thy strain the sweet song of her nightingales,
The full bloom of her roses! how thy soul
Its glory o'er her woodlands would unroll,
People their green paths with heroic grace,
And build 'midst their thick glooms fair Virtue's Holy Place!
But lo! thine England blazed with sacred ire
And burned with Heavenward hope. The Lord stood by.
Full fell that awful flame, that holy fire
Into thine English heart; thine eagle eye
Bathed in that streaming Heavenborn radiancy!
O quick thy soul those steps divine to trace, And with a burst of praise greet each New Birth of Grace!
171
Full fell that awful flame, that holy fire
Into thine English heart; thine eagle eye
Bathed in that streaming Heavenborn radiancy!
O quick thy soul those steps divine to trace, And with a burst of praise greet each New Birth of Grace!
O burning lips for England's weal ablaze!
O stricken eyes o'erwrought for love of her!
O Prophet of those solemn, sacred days,
Whose voice rang sweetly thro' that prayerful air,
Nor shamëd those strong strokes of Oliver!
Lo! awful swayed her mightiest Man of Might,
Lo! beamy near him walked her sovereign Soul of Light.
O stricken eyes o'erwrought for love of her!
O Prophet of those solemn, sacred days,
Whose voice rang sweetly thro' that prayerful air,
Nor shamëd those strong strokes of Oliver!
Lo! awful swayed her mightiest Man of Might,
Lo! beamy near him walked her sovereign Soul of Light.
172
And when her heart waxed faint, her fire burnëd low,
When sate the glory on her face no more,
Thy steadfast soul unlearnëd not its glow
Nor drooped its wings. O! stronger then to soar,
O then inspired its heavenliest strain to pour,
Oblivious of that shrunken England dim
'Midst angel-harpings sweet and smiles of Seraphim!
When sate the glory on her face no more,
Thy steadfast soul unlearnëd not its glow
Nor drooped its wings. O! stronger then to soar,
O then inspired its heavenliest strain to pour,
Oblivious of that shrunken England dim
'Midst angel-harpings sweet and smiles of Seraphim!
And for those sightless orbs bloomed Heaven's own flowers,
And Hell before those quenchëd eyes lay bare;
And those imprisoned feet through Eden's bowers
Rejoiced to wander free and linger there.
Anon he parted from the fallen pair
To walk with Him who laid their conqueror low,
And breathëd o'er the waste, “the happy Garden's” glow.
And Hell before those quenchëd eyes lay bare;
And those imprisoned feet through Eden's bowers
Rejoiced to wander free and linger there.
Anon he parted from the fallen pair
To walk with Him who laid their conqueror low,
And breathëd o'er the waste, “the happy Garden's” glow.
173
O! Bird of Heaven, whose wings sublime outsoared
Each mortal pinion most adventurous,
The ringing sweetness of whose voice o'erpowered
All mortal voices most melodious!
Nor this thy harmony most marvellous!
O rhythmic life, divinely linkëd years
That kept majestic time with the Harmonious Spheres!
Each mortal pinion most adventurous,
The ringing sweetness of whose voice o'erpowered
All mortal voices most melodious!
Nor this thy harmony most marvellous!
O rhythmic life, divinely linkëd years
That kept majestic time with the Harmonious Spheres!
And, England, thou this soul supreme didst bear;
In thy blest air this sovereign singer soared:
O crown, O purple which thou aye shall wear,
Though in thy quiver realms no more lie stored,
And Ocean murmur 'neath another lord;
Imperial still in thine own Milton's right,
Still beamy with his beams, still mighty with his might!
In thy blest air this sovereign singer soared:
O crown, O purple which thou aye shall wear,
Though in thy quiver realms no more lie stored,
And Ocean murmur 'neath another lord;
Imperial still in thine own Milton's right,
Still beamy with his beams, still mighty with his might!
| The Anniversaries | |