Source of book: I own this
Milton was a complicated character, to say the least.
He was devoutly religious - indeed a Puritan (or at least Puritan-adjacent). He served in Oliver Cromwell’s administration. Yet he was also nonconforming in both doctrine and practice. He was an Arian (anti-Trinitarian) who also believed in free will. And he seemed to get in some trouble with every political and religious establishment, perhaps because he insisted on a person’s right to interpret the Bible for themselves.
He was in certain ways, well ahead of his times. He was an ardent advocate for freedom of speech and freedom of religion. He argued for the separation of church and state long before it was enshrined in constitutions.
Many will be surprised that he also advocated - in the 17th Century! - for no-fault divorce. It was his belief that marriage was a mutual agreement by two people rather than a binding unbreakable contract. If the couple found they were incompatible, they should be free to admit their mistake and move on. Yeah, that’s pretty radical - California was the first no-fault divorce state starting in the….1960s.
On the other hand, one of the reasons that he was pro-divorce was his own marriage. His first marriage resulted in his wife leaving him mere months into it. By all accounts, they both felt they had made a mistake. And also, there is evidence that Milton, for all his progressive ideas, was a bit of a sexist and preferred to be served by his spouse.
They would eventually reconcile and have four children together, before she died from childbirth. His second wife would do so as well. The third time was the charm, apparently. By that time, Milton was blind, and she was by all accounts a devoted caretaker.
I have previously written about two other works by Milton. Paradise Lost, of course - arguably the greatest epic written in English, and a work with the same complexity of morality and theology as its author. It never fails to fascinate me that he ended up making Satan seem like the hero of the story, and I wonder if to a degree, he realized at some unconscious level that he and the Satan of the story weren’t unalike. That tension is one reason the poem continues to resonate today, even with non-religious readers.
The other work I read and discussed is Areopagitica, Milton’s brilliant pamphlet arguing in favor of freedom of speech and freedom of thought. Naturally, it was banned before its publication. I still re-post it for Banned Books Week every year.
"And yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God’s image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye."
Outside of Paradise Lost, Milton didn’t actually write that many poems. I was somewhat surprised to realize this. He lived fairly long for his era, but much of his time was taken by the longer works, the prose, and his other activities. Compared to, say, Wordsworth or Tennyson, he really only wrote a few.
That said, what he did leave was pretty good.
For this post, I read all of his other poetry except the Masques.
These can be divided into various categories. There are a handful of juvenile poems in various forms. There are a number of excellent sonnets. And there are three collections of Psalms translated and set as modern English poetry. And a handful of others here and there.
As one might expect, many of the poems are religious. One mid-sized example is “The Passion,” which is an unfinished fragment of eight stanzas, begun when Milton was a teen. Here is one particular stanza that I thought good.
The latest scenes confine my roving vers,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound,
His godlike acts, and His temptations fierce,
And former sufferings otherwhere are found;
Loud o’er the rest Cremona’s trump doth sound;
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings
Of lute or viol still, more apt for mournful things.
Another poem that stood out to me is this one:
On Time
Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy, leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace,
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So litter is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, t’whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall forever sit
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.
Note the archaic reference to a “plummet” - what we would now call a plumb line. All are related to the Latin word for lead. So here Milton is referencing the previous line while insisting that lead’s pace is actually a fast fall. Time might as well fly, because the end of Time is the end of all that is earthly in death.
Milton clearly felt the ticking of the clock, and his impending death - even while young. One of his early sonnets is a great example.
On Being Arrived at Twenty-three Years of Age
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud nor blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven.
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.
Here is another one that I liked:
Song on May Morning
Now the bright morning-star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire,
Mirth and youth and warm desire,
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
I’m not going to quote the whole thing, but I want to mention a line in “L’Allegro” that caught my eye.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
Did you ever wonder where “trip the light fantastic” came from? Well, there you go. Milton did it first. The phrase stuck, and even became the title of a Terry Pratchett fantasy.
There are a few random translations in the collection. Some, like this one, are translations of whole poems, in this case, one by Horace, which he claims is fairly word for word, without rhyme, as in the original.
The Fifth Ode of Horace
What slender youth, bedewed with liquid odours,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave.
Pyrrha? For whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? Oh, how oft shall he
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire?
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold;
Who always vacant, always amiable,
Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they
To whom thou untried seem’st fair! Me, in my vowed
Picture, the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and drooping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.
The reference to Pyrrha is best understood if you know the story.
It might seem cliche, but I think that Milton’s most famous sonnet is an incredible, essentially perfect, example of the form. I first read it in high school, and it has aged well. I still think the last line is one of the most badass things ever written
On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
The Psalms are quite interesting. The first two were written when he was all of 15 years old. While I wouldn’t say they are good as his later ones, they are nonetheless impressive. As one who knows the Psalms in various English translations, I find his choices fascinating. Translation is an art, not a science, and poetry in particular is a compromise between form and meaning. Even the decision to attempt such a project is an effort of theological interpretation that reveals Milton’s beliefs.
The two latter sets were written in a short period of time. The first is Psalms 1 through 8, each translated on a consecutive day in August of 1653 (with a break for Sunday, naturally.) The second set is Psalm 80 through 88, and were written a few years earlier, in 1648.
I selected this one as my favorite of the bunch, although all of them are good.
Psalm III
Lord, how many are my foes!
How many those
That in arms against me rise!
Many are they
That of my life distrustfully thus say,
‘No help for him in God there lies.’
But thou, Lord, art my shield, my glory;
Th’ exalter of my head I count:
Aloud I cried
Unto Jehovah; he full soon replied,
And heard me from his holy mount.
I lay and slept; I waked again:
For my sustain
Was the Lord. Of many millions
The populous rout
I fear not, though encamping round about,
They pitch against me their pavilions.
Rise, Lord; save me, my God! for thou
Hast smote ere now
On the cheek-bone all my foes,
Of men abhorred
Hast broke the teeth. This help was from the Lord;
Thy blessing on thy people flows.
At the end of this collection are a few brief quotations, translated from ancient authors. I liked this one from Horace:
“Jesting decides great things
Stronglier, and better oft then earnest can.”
It has been a while since I read the really old English language poetry, and it was definitely time. I do think Milton was a great writer, and it is a shame he didn’t leave more poetry behind.
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