Milton

By Ernest Myers (1844–1921)

(Born Dec. 9. 1608)

HE left the upland lawns and serene air

Wherefrom his soul her noble nurture drew,

And reared his helm among the unquiet crew

Battling beneath; the morning radiance rare

Of his young brow amid the tumult there

Grew grim with sulphurous dust and sanguine dew;

Yet through all soilure they who marked him knew

The signs of his life’s dayspring, calm and fair.

But when peace came, peace fouler far than war,

And mirth more dissonant than battle’s tone,

He, with a scornful sigh of his clear soul,

Back to his mountain clomb, now bleak and frore,

And with the awful Night he dwelt alone,

In darkness, listening to the thunder’s roll.