John Milton. (1608–1674). On the Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough O FAIREST Flower, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly, Summer’s chief honour, if thou hadst outlasted Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry; For he, being amorous on that lovely dye That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss. ... Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Or that thy corse corrupts in earth’s dark womb, Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb; Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom? Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Above mortality, that showed thou wast divine. ... Wert thou some Star, which from the ruined roof Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall; Which careful Jove in nature’s true behoof Took up, and in fit place did reinstall? Or did of late Earth’s sons besiege the wall Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some Goddess fled Amongst us here below to hide thy nectared head? ... X But oh! why didst thou not stay here below To bless us with thy heaven-loved innocence, To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe, To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence, Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence, To stand ’twixt us and our deservèd smart? But thou canst best perform that office where thou art. XI Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child, Her false-imagined loss cease to lament, And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild; Think what a present thou to God hast sent, And render him with patience what he lent: This if thou do, he will an offspring give That till the world’s last end shall make thy name to live.
Posted on: Thu, 13 Jun 2013 11:49:26 +0000
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