Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ELEGY: 3. ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, by JOHN MILTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGY: 3. ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Silent I sat, dejected and alone
Last Line: Frequent to me may dreams like this return!
Subject(s): Andrewes, Lancelot,(1555-1626); Clergy; Bishop Of Winchester; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops


( COMPOSED IN THE AUTHOR'S SEVENTEENTH YEAR)

SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,
Making in thought the public woes my own,
When, first, arose the image in my breast
Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!
How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low,
And levelled tribes of nobles at a blow.
I next deplored the famed fraternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turned, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatched into the skies
All Belgia saw, and followed with her sighs;
But thee far most I mourned, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!
Poured out in tears I thus complaining said:
"Death, next in power to him who rules the dead!
"Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield
"To thy fell force, and every verdant field;
"That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
"And even the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine;
"That oaks themselves, although the running rill
"Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will;
"That all the winged nations, even those
"Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows,
"And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
"And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey?
"Ah, envious! armed with powers so unconfined!
"Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
"Why take delight, with darts, that never roam,
"To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home?"
While thus I mourned, the star of evening stood,
Now newly risen, above the western flood,
And Phoebus from his morming goal again
Had reached the gulfs of the Iberian main.
I wished repose, and on my couch reclined
Took early rest, to night and sleep resigned:
When--Oh for words to paint what I beheld!--
I seemed to wander in a spacious field,
Where all the champaign glowed with purple light
Like that of sunrise on the mountain height;
Flowers over all the field, of every hue
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew.
Nor Chloris, with whom amorous zephyrs play,
E'er dressed Alcinous' garden half so gay.
A silver current, like the Tagus, rolled
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold;
With dewy airs Favonius fanned the flowers,
With airs awakened under rosy bowers:
Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.
While I that splendour and the mingled shade
Of fruitful vines with wonder fixt surveyed,
At once, with looks that beamed celestial grace,
The seer of Winton stood before my face.
His snowy vesture's hem descending low
His golden sandals swept; and pure as snow
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.
Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound
Of gladness shook the flowery scene around:
Attendant angels clap their starry wings,
The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings;
Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast,
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest:
"Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share!
"My son! henceforth be freed from every care!"
So spake the voice, and at its tender close
With psaltry's sound the angelic band arose;
Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day,
The visionary bliss passed all away.
I mourned my banished sleep, with fond concern;
Frequent to me may dreams like this return!





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