The Three Hundredth Anniversary Of Milton's Birth.

(December 9th, 1908.)

"There was a man sent from God, whose name was John."

Three hundred years have left their telltale rings
Upon the tree of Time since he appeared -
Milton (to be remembered and revered);
Whose spirit mounted on seraphic wings;
Who saw, though blind, extraordinary things;
Who wrought in obloquy, and persevered,
And, Orpheus-like, with his great music reared
A monument surpassing those of kings.

Three hundred years, courageous, lofty soul,
Hast thou by precept and example taught
Thy lesson. Have we learned it as we ought?
Have we moved upward, nearer to the goal?
Yea, somewhat have we learned; be with us still,
And teach us Man's high function to fulfil.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Dominion Day, 1900.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Motive

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Old Year.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Autumn.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Lines On Milton

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)

Milton!
        the name of that divinest Bard
Acts on Imagination like a charm
Of holiest power; with deep, religious awe
She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd
The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.

O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,
With what astonishment, will all the sons
Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse
His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride
Will England ever boast her Milton's name,
The Poet matchless in sublimity!
E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound
The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;
Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,
They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power
No longer treads the guilt-polluted world,
But soars aloft, and draw...

Thomas Oldham

The Light Celestial.

(Written on the ter-centenary of John Milton, December 9, 1908.)


Immortal singer, in whose glorious brain
    Unearthly melodies were born to make
    A nocturn for the blessed Master's sake,
I see thee pass through heaven's gates again;
I hear thee singing that majestic strain,
    Which soothed the heart affliction could not break,
    And proved the faith no worldly ills could shake;
And then I see thee join God's holy train,
    But, wonder of all wonders! where the light
    Breaks from a thousand suns, the seraphs, shod
With flaming sandals, lead thee; and my sight
    Dims with the vision, till fresh from His rod,
I see thee lift those orbs, once quenched in night,
    And gaze into the steadfast eyes of God!

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Milton (Alcaics)

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity,
God-gifted organ-voice of England,
Milton, a name to resound for ages;
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Rings to the roar of an angel onset--
Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,
And bloom profuse and cedar arches
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,
And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods
Whisper in odorous heights of even.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A Miltonic Exercise

(TERCENTENARY, 1608-1908)

"Stops of various Quills."--LYCIDAS.


What need of votive Verse
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?

Bard, Prophet, Archimage!
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?

Yes,--"we are selfish Men":
Yet would we once again
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;

Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view
Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!

Or could we catch once more,
High up, the Clang and Roa...

Henry Austin Dobson

On the Death of the Bishop of Ely.1 - Anno Aetates 17.

My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet
With briny dews profusely shed
For venerable Winton dead,²
When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound
Alas! are ever truest found,
The news through all our cities spread
Of yet another mitred head
By ruthless Fate to Death consign'd,
Ely, the honour of his kind.
At once, a storm of passion heav'd
My boiling bosom, much I grieved
But more I raged, at ev'ry breath
Devoting Death himself to death.
With less revenge did Naso³ teem
When hated Ibis was his theme;
With less, Archilochus,⁴ denied
The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride.
But lo! while thus I execrate,
Incens'd, the Minister of Fate,
Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,
Wafted on the g...

John Milton

At A Solemn Musick

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As    once we did, till dis...

John Milton