John Milton (1608–1674)

NOTHING is here for tears, nothing to wail

Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,

Dispraise, or blame, nothing but well and fair,

And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

Let us go find the body where it lies

Sok’t in his enemies blood, and from the stream

With lavers pure and cleansing herbs wash off

The clotted gore. I with what speed the while

(Gaza is not in plight to say us nay)

Will send for all my kindred, all my friends

To fetch him hence and solemnly attend

With silent obsequie and funeral train

Home to his Fathers house: there will I build him

A Monument, and plant it round with shade

Of Laurel ever green, and branching Palm,

With all his Trophies hung, and Acts enroll’d

In copious Legend, or sweet Lyric Song.

Thither shall all the valiant youth resort,

And from his memory inflame thir breasts

To matchless valour, and adventures high:

The Virgins also shall on feastful days

Visit his Tomb with flowers, only bewailing

His lot unfortunate in nuptial choice,

From whence captivity and loss of eyes.

All is best, though we oft doubt,

What th’ unsearchable dispose

Of highest wisdom brings about,

And ever best found in the close.

Oft he seems to hide his face,

But unexpectedly returns

And to his faithful champion hath in place

Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns

And all that band them to resist

His uncontrollable intent,

His servants he with new acquist

Of true experience from this great event

With peace and consolation hath dismist,

And calm of mind all passion spent.