Autobiography of John Milton, Or, Milton's Life in His Own Words

Hail, heav'nly Poet! taught in sorrow's school
To sing of Paradise both lost and won;
No earthly Paradise thyself e'er found,

Save that within thy own pure breast serene;
Who does not love thy classic page to scan,
Thy stately prose and justly-cadenc'd song?
Long have I lov'd thee-long have ponder'd o'er
Thy charmed words, and sought to read thy soul,
To picture on my brain thy image fair.

Not thy sweet manly form and lofty brow
So often limn'd; but thy deep hidden life,
Thy very self, itself, I fain would know.
But all are silent-history's busy page
Scarce deigns to mention thy immortal name,
Immortal now, though then by all unprais'd.
And still thou findest 'few, though fit audience.'
Among those 'few' may I be counted 'fit'!

To thy own page I turn; and converse sweet
There hold with thee, there read thy chequer'd life,
All that thou wert; for books are living things,

viii

'The precious life-blood of a master-spirit,' 1 Treasur'd and stor❜d for life beyond this life. And thy own works alone thy true self show,