O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.