JOHN MILTON
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o'rc th'accustom'd Okc;
Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical], most melancholy'
Thee Chaun tress oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy eevcn-Song,
And mibsmg thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
To behold the wandrmg Moon,
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Hcav'ns wide pathlcs way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft 011 a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,
Over som wide-water'd shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans drousic charm,
To bless the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in som high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
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