Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MERCURY; ON LOSING MY POCKET MILTON AT LUSS NEAR BEN LOMOND, by ROBERT ANDREWS



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MERCURY; ON LOSING MY POCKET MILTON AT LUSS NEAR BEN LOMOND, by            
First Line: Luss! Be forever sunk beneath / ben's horrors piled around
Last Line: The laurel never sere.'
Subject(s): Milton, John (1608-1674); Mountains; Hills; Downs (great Britain)


LUSS! be for ever sunk beneath
Ben's horrors piled around:
Sun's livening ray ne'er pierce thy gloom,
Thy hideous deep be drained!
Fishes be turned t'infernal snakes,
Boatswain to Cerberus!
Mouth of th' Avernian Gulf be thou,
Its mortal damp thy air!
All o'er thy plains volcanoes thick
Their burning sands disgorge!
Birds never trill their swelling chaunt,
Nor roam the humming bee!
Herds never graze, nor sheep nor goat,
Nor play the shepherd's lute!
Crags other echo ne'er repeat
Than dismal Furies' yell!
Swift on a morning-ray then, lo!
The airy-sandalled god,
Mercury, came, and smiling: 'I
Thy pillow's treasure stole.
Milton no more be fancy's fount
Of borrowed ecstasies.
Phoebus ordained: presenting, see,
The laurel never sere.'





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