It panted along its mirrored way;
     Above loose threads one sanctioning star,
     The wonder of what had been witnessed, sealed,
     And with me still as in crystal glassed
     Are the depths alight, the heavens revealed,
     Where on to the Alps the muteness passed.

     Milton—­December9, 1608:  December 9, 1908

     What splendour of imperial station man,
     The Tree of Life, may reach when, rooted fast,
     His branching stem points way to upper air
     And skyward still aspires, we see in him
     Who sang for us the Archangelical host,
     Made Morning, by old Darkness urged to the abyss;
     A voice that down three centuries onward rolls;
     Onward will roll while lives our English tongue,
     In the devout of music unsurpassed
     Since Piety won Heaven’s ear on Israel’s harp.

     The face of Earth, the soul of Earth, her charm,
     Her dread austerity; the quavering fate
     Of mortals with blind hope by passion swayed,
     His mind embraced, the while on trodden soil,
     Defender of the Commonwealth, he joined
     Our temporal fray, whereof is vital fruit,
     And, choosing armoury of the Scholar, stood
     Beside his peers to raise the voice for Freedom: 
     Nor has fair Liberty a champion armed
     To meet on heights or plains the Sophister
     Throughout the ages, equal to this man,
     Whose spirit breathed high Heaven, and drew thence
     The ethereal sword to smite.

     Were England sunk
     Beneath the shifting tides, her heart, her brain,
     The smile she wears, the faith she holds, her best,
     Would live full-toned in the grand delivery
     Of his cathedral speech:  an utterance
     Almost divine, and such as Hellespont,
     Crashing its breakers under Ida’s frown,
     Inspired:  yet worthier he, whose instrument
     Was by comparison the coarse reed-pipe;
     Whereof have come the marvellous harmonies,
     Which, with his lofty theme, of infinite range,
     Abash, entrance, exalt.

     We need him now,
     This latest Age in repetition cries: 
     For Belial, the adroit, is in our midst;
     Mammon, more swoln to squeeze the slavish sweat
     From hopeless toil:  and overshadowingly
     (Aggrandized, monstrous in his grinning mask
     Of hypocritical Peace,) inveterate Moloch
     Remains the great example.

     Homage to him
     His debtor band, innumerable as waves
     Running all golden from an eastern sun,
     Joyfully render, in deep reverence
     Subscribe, and as they speak their Milton’s name,
     Rays of his glory on their foreheads bear.

     Ireland

     Fire in her ashes Ireland