THE following epitaph has been attributed to Milton, not without some plausibility, although its genuineness is very dubious :—
HE whom Heaven did call away
Out of this hermitage of clay
Has left some relics in this urn
As a pledge of his return.
Meanwhile the Muses do deplore
The loss of this their paramour,-
With whom he sported ere the day
Budded forth its tender ray.
And now Apollo leaves his lays,
And puts on cypress for his bays.
The Sacred Sisters tune their quills
Only to the blubbering rills;
And, whilst his doom they think upon,
Make their own tears their Helicon,-
Leaving the two-topt mount divine,
To turn votaries to his shrine.
Think not, reader, me less blest,
Sleeping in this narrow cist,
Than if my ashes did lie hid
Under some stately pyramid.
If a rich tomb makes happy, then
That bee was happier far than men,
Who busy in the thymy wood
Was fettered by the golden flood
Which from the amber-weeping tree
Distilleth down so plenteously:
For so this little wanton elf
Most gloriously enshrined itself:
A tomb whose beauty might compare
With Cleopatra's sepulchre.
In this little bed my dust
Incurtained round I here intrust,
Whilst my more pure and nobler part
Lies entombed in every heart.
Then pass on gently, ye that mourn,
Touch not this mine hollowed urn.
These ashes which do here remain
A vital tincture still retain ;
A seminal form within the deeps
Of this little chaos sleeps.
The thread of life untwisted is
Into its first existencies:
Infant Nature cradled here
In its principles appear.