Thou, whom I worship — where art thou? Monarch of bards! my voice is unto thee— Oh, that in all thine immortality, Thou might'st appear to me, Visible in thy glory now! Poet of poets! girt and panoplied With an omnipotence of song; Dark mingler with fall'n spirits, fierce and strong, Maddening in seas of fire! Herald dread Of hell's most horrid session! Utterer Of its deep secrets to the palsied ear Of shrunk mortality! Bright denizen Of yon etherial orb! The seat of men To angels and to Heaven! Companion Of ardours burning round the eternal throne! Fellow of cherubim and seraphim, Brother and rival in their choral hymn, Sang to Jehovah in the heaven of heavens! The nightingale of Eden's balmy evens! Lark of its morning! Lyrist of its loves, Galless and gentle as its own sweet doves,— Breath of its joy — harp of its misery— My voice is unto thee!
But thou in youth a gentler dream Shadowed of the smooth Severn stream; And did'st, with just adjuring verse, That none but spirits may rehearse, Oft taking shepherd, weed, and mien, To visit this worn mold of sin, Swift as the sparkle of a star, Guiding the favoured wanderer, Rightly invoked, in warbled song, The virgin from her nymphs among, To list thy spell, where she was sitting, Her hair in braids of lilies knitting, And rise and heave her rosy head, From her coral-paven bed; And extend her powerful hand, To undo the charmed band From virgin beautiful and true, And in distress and danger too, Through the force and through the wile Of unbless'd enchanter vile.— Once again, oh, grant to me Help of ensnared chastity, Virgin, daughter of Locrine, Sprung of old Anchises' line, Amphitrite's oozy bower, To leave for one brief blessed hour, And whisper in thy poet's ear, Dulcetly soft, and sweetly clear, Thine early tale — or to my dream Come e'en like a shadowy gleam, And open all the storied scene On my visionary eyne; So, like Thyrsis, will I then Give the benizon agen— And bid my blessing ever brood Upon thy margent, cave, and flood, Like the peaceful halcyon, After the mad gales have gone!
Thou, of my youth's visions the sole theme— Thou wert the sun — the aspiring eagle I, Drinking thy glory in my mind's eye; Though thou wert throned so high, Flooding the heaven with thine effulgent stream!
Thou unapproachable! yet in whose light All may rejoice — supreme, divine; Bard of the universe — and yet art mine— Who sang'st, like Philomela, in the night! Voice of the wilderness, that heralded Messiah, like a trump of welcome dread! Poet of his temptation! and the spirit That did the high and raptured harp inherit, Which the archangel tuned to triumph, when Was foiled by man the never-foiled of men— The infernal serpent! Hail! all hail! great muse Of mirth and melancholy! — Oh, diffuse Thy spirit upon mine! dwell in my heart, Breathe on my soul — and all thine own impart— Mind of the world — of all worlds — bright and real, Substance or shadow, dedal or ideal! Thou, whom I worship — MILTON! where art thou? Thou, at whose shrine I offered boyhood's vow, Emulant of thine immortality— My voice is unto thee!
