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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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But all was false and hollow though his tongue Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, 4 to perplex and dash Maturest counsels.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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