POEMS WRITTEN AT HORTON
��must have combined with the descent of the Attendant Spirit from the clouds, the pageantry of Comus's palace, and the dan- cing of the bewitched monsters, to give just the right touch of rococo elaborateness to the stage production.
Comus, more than any other youthful work of Milton, and more than any work of his maturity except Samson Agonistes, shows his power as an artist. It has not the pure sweetness of L'Allegro and II Penseroso, nor does it anywhere rise to the lyric heights of Lycidas; but over its diverse and seemingly irreconcilable ele- ments has gone the cool hand of the mas- ter, to build and subdue. There is in it a severity of tone, a chastity of ornament, a calm artistic vision, to which most poets, even the greatest, attain only by long pur- ging of their eyes with euphrasy and rue. On the moral side, as has been said above, there is to many minds something not quite
ARCADES
(1633)
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Coun- tess Dowager of Derby at Harefield by some Noble Persons of her Family; who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song :
I. SONG
LOOK, Nymphs and Shepherds, look ! What sudden blaze of majesty Is that which we from hence descry, Too divine to be mistook ?
This, this is she
To whom our vows and wishes bend: Here our solemn search hath end. Fame, that her high worth to raise Seemed erst so lavish and profuse, We may justly now accuse 10
Of detraction from her praise:
Less than half we find expressed;
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state she spreads, In circle round her shining throne Shooting her beams like silver threads: This, this is she alone,
��persuasive in Comus; its high doctrine comes at times a little priggishly and with a flavor of unripeness from a young man's lips. But its art is wholly admirable. Its blank verse, if it has not the thunders and the compelling wings of that of Paradise Lost, has all the later dignity of carriage. Its rhymed octosyllabics are in the purest pastoral mode. Its lyrics sing themselves, and shine with an unaccountable light. Above all, there presides over the poem from the first line to the last the fine econ- omy of a mind that compels everything into the service of a dominant idea. Mil- ton never demonstrated his character, both as artist and as man, more signally than when he made the quaint vehicle of the masque, designed to carry no heavier freightage than an evening's careless amuse- ment, bear the burden of a profound per- sonal philosophy, and bear it, not as a bur- den, but as an essence.
Sitting like a Goddess bright In the centre of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be, 20
Or the towered Cybele, Mother of a hunderd gods ? Juno dares not give her odds:
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparalleled ?
As they come forward, the GENIUS OF THE WOOD appears, and, turning toward them, speaks.
Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in
this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your
eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice, 30 Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and
good.
I know this quest of yours and free in- tent
Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great Mistress of yon princely shrine,
�� �
