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.
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