L’ Allegro

Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, And, by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing,— As he met her once a-Maying,— There, on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity,— Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathèd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek,— Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come! and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free,— To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before; Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, From the side of some hoar hill Through the high wood echoing shrill; Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray,— Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest,— Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses: And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale With stories told of many a feat: How fairy Mab the junkets eat,— She was pinched and pulled, she said, And he, by friar’s lantern led; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail had thrashed the corn That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And, crop-full, out of doors he flings Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,— With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With masque, and antique pageantry,— Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream; Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learnèd sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,— Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony,— That Orpheus’ self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.