To Leonora (3)

Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope¹ deceas'd, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic² grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
Of magic song both Gods and Men detains.

John Milton

John Milton was an influential English poet, theologian, and intellectual. He is best known for his epic poem 'Paradise Lost,' which explores themes of rebellion, free will, and human fallibility. His works reflect his deep engagement with politics, religion, and linguistic innovation. Milton's literary contributions have cemented him as one of the most important figures in Western literature, and his writings continue to be studied and revered worldwide.

John Milton

To Giovanni Salzilli, a Roman Poet, in his Illness. Scazons.

John Milton, Simple Poetry

Upon The Circumcision

John Milton, Simple Poetry

Light

John Milton, Simple Poetry

On The Religious Memory Of Mrs. Catherine Thomson, My Christian Friend, Deceased Dec. 16, 1646

John Milton, Simple Poetry

English

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Another to the Same. (To Leonora)

Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more
    The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope^[1] deceas'd, she gave
    Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic^[2] grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
    Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
    Of magic song both Gods and Men detains.

William Cowper

To Leonora (2)

Another Leonora¹ once inspir'd
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of Thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute² of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus'³ tho' his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing thro' his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

John Milton

To Leonora,1 Singing in Rome.

Angelus unicuique suus (sic credite gentes)
Obtigit aethereis ales ab ordinibus.
Quid mirum? Leonora tibi si gloria major,
Nam tua praesentem vox sonat ipsa Deum.
Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia coeli
Pertua secreto guttura serpit agens;
Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia corda
Sensim immortali assuescere posse sono.
Quod si cuncta quidem Deus est, per cunctaque fusus,
In te una loquitur, caetera mutus habet.

John Milton

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

Elegy I To Charles Diodati.1

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home,
They come, at length, from Deva's² Western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.³
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell
To reedy Cam,⁴ and my forbidden cell.⁵
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats⁶ disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul will ne'e...

John Milton

Epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester

This rich marble doth inter
The honoured wife of Winchester,
A viscounts daughter, an earls heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told; alas! too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness and with death!
Yet, had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and Fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth and her graces sweet
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire for her request
The god that sits at marriage-feast;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland, as he stood,
Ye might discern a cypress-bud.
Once had the early...

John Milton