The Full Text of “Il Penseroso”
1Hence vain deluding Joys,
2 The brood of Folly without father bred,
3How little you bested,
4 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys;
5Dwell in some idle brain,
6 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
7As thick and numberless
8 As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
9Or likest hovering dreams,
10 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
11But hail thou goddess, sage and holy,
12Hail divinest Melancholy,
13Whose saintly visage is too bright
14To hit the sense of human sight;
15And therefore to our weaker view,
16O'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
17Black, but such as in esteem,
18Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
19Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
20To set her beauty's praise above
21The sea nymphs, and their powers offended.
22Yet thou art higher far descended,
23Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,
24To solitary Saturn bore;
25His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
26Such mixture was not held a stain)
27Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
28He met her, and in secret shades
29Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
30While yet there was no fear of Jove.
31Come pensive nun, devout and pure,
32Sober, stedfast, and demure,
33All in a robe of darkest grain,
34Flowing with majestic train,
35And sable stole of cypress lawn,
36Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
37Come, but keep thy wonted state,
38With ev'n step, and musing gait,
39And looks commercing with the skies,
40Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
41There held in holy passion still,
42Forget thyself to marble, till
43With a sad leaden downward cast,
44Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
45And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
46Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
47And hears the Muses in a ring,
48Aye round about Jove's altar sing.
49And add to these retired Leisure,
50That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
51But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
52Him that yon soars on golden wing,
53Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
54The cherub Contemplation;
55And the mute Silence hist along,
56'Less Philomel will deign a song,
57In her sweetest, saddest plight,
58Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
59While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
60Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak.
61Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
62Most musical, most melancholy!
63Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
64I woo to hear thy even-song;
65And missing thee, I walk unseen
66On the dry smooth-shaven green,
67To behold the wand'ring Moon,
68Riding near her highest noon,
69Like one that had been led astray
70Through the heav'ns wide pathless way;
71And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
72Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
73Oft on a plat of rising ground,
74I hear the far-off curfew sound,
75Over some wide-water'd shore,
76Swinging slow with sullen roar;
77Or if the air will not permit,
78Some still removed place will fit,
79Where glowing embers through the room
80Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
81Far from all resort of mirth,
82Save the cricket on the hearth,
83Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
84To bless the doors from nightly harm.
85Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
86Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
87Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
88With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
89The spirit of Plato, to unfold
90What worlds, or what vast regions hold
91The immortal mind that hath forsook
92Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
93And of those dæmons that are found
94In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
95Whose power hath a true consent
96With planet, or with element.
97Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
98In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by,
99Presenting Thebes', or Pelop's line,
100Or the tale of Troy divine,
101Or what (though rare) of later age,
102Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
103But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
104Might raise Musæus from his bower,
105Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
106Such notes as, warbled to the string,
107Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
108And made Hell grant what love did seek.
109Or call up him that left half told
110The story of Cambuscan bold,
111Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
112And who had Canace to wife,
113That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
114And of the wond'rous horse of brass,
115On which the Tartar king did ride;
116And if aught else, great bards beside,
117In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
118Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
119Of forests, and enchantments drear,
120Where more is meant than meets the ear.
121Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
122Till civil-suited Morn appear,
123Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,
124With the Attic boy to hunt,
125But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
126While rocking winds are piping loud,
127Or usher'd with a shower still,
128When the gust hath blown his fill,
129Ending on the rustling leaves,
130With minute-drops from off the eaves.
131And when the Sun begins to fling
132His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
133To arched walks of twilight groves,
134And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
135Of pine, or monumental oak,
136Where the rude axe with heaved stroke,
137Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
138Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
139There in close covert by some brook,
140Where no profaner eye may look,
141Hide me from Day's garish eye,
142While the bee with honied thigh,
143That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
144And the waters murmuring
145With such consort as they keep,
146Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
147And let some strange mysterious dream,
148Wave at his wings, in airy stream
149Of lively portraiture display'd,
150Softly on my eye-lids laid.
151And as I wake, sweet music breathe
152Above, about, or underneath,
153Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
154Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
155 But let my due feet never fail
156To walk the studious cloister's pale,
157And love the high embowed roof,
158With antique pillars massy proof,
159And storied windows richly dight,
160Casting a dim religious light.
161There let the pealing organ blow,
162To the full-voic'd quire below,
163In service high, and anthems clear,
164As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
165Dissolve me into ecstasies,
166And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
167And may at last my weary age
168Find out the peaceful hermitage,
169The hairy gown and mossy cell,
170Where I may sit and rightly spell
171Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,
172And every herb that sips the dew;
173Till old experience do attain
174To something like prophetic strain.
175These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
176And I with thee will choose to live.
The Full Text of “Il Penseroso”
1Hence vain deluding Joys,
2 The brood of Folly without father bred,
3How little you bested,
4 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys;
5Dwell in some idle brain,
6 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
7As thick and numberless
8 As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
9Or likest hovering dreams,
10 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
11But hail thou goddess, sage and holy,
12Hail divinest Melancholy,
13Whose saintly visage is too bright
14To hit the sense of human sight;
15And therefore to our weaker view,
16O'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
17Black, but such as in esteem,
18Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
19Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
20To set her beauty's praise above
21The sea nymphs, and their powers offended.
22Yet thou art higher far descended,
23Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,
24To solitary Saturn bore;
25His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
26Such mixture was not held a stain)
27Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
28He met her, and in secret shades
29Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
30While yet there was no fear of Jove.
31Come pensive nun, devout and pure,
32Sober, stedfast, and demure,
33All in a robe of darkest grain,
34Flowing with majestic train,
35And sable stole of cypress lawn,
36Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
37Come, but keep thy wonted state,
38With ev'n step, and musing gait,
39And looks commercing with the skies,
40Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
41There held in holy passion still,
42Forget thyself to marble, till
43With a sad leaden downward cast,
44Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
45And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
46Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
47And hears the Muses in a ring,
48Aye round about Jove's altar sing.
49And add to these retired Leisure,
50That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
51But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
52Him that yon soars on golden wing,
53Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
54The cherub Contemplation;
55And the mute Silence hist along,
56'Less Philomel will deign a song,
57In her sweetest, saddest plight,
58Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
59While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
60Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak.
61Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
62Most musical, most melancholy!
63Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
64I woo to hear thy even-song;
65And missing thee, I walk unseen
66On the dry smooth-shaven green,
67To behold the wand'ring Moon,
68Riding near her highest noon,
69Like one that had been led astray
70Through the heav'ns wide pathless way;
71And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
72Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
73Oft on a plat of rising ground,
74I hear the far-off curfew sound,
75Over some wide-water'd shore,
76Swinging slow with sullen roar;
77Or if the air will not permit,
78Some still removed place will fit,
79Where glowing embers through the room
80Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
81Far from all resort of mirth,
82Save the cricket on the hearth,
83Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
84To bless the doors from nightly harm.
85Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
86Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
87Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
88With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
89The spirit of Plato, to unfold
90What worlds, or what vast regions hold
91The immortal mind that hath forsook
92Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
93And of those dæmons that are found
94In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
95Whose power hath a true consent
96With planet, or with element.
97Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
98In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by,
99Presenting Thebes', or Pelop's line,
100Or the tale of Troy divine,
101Or what (though rare) of later age,
102Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
103But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
104Might raise Musæus from his bower,
105Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
106Such notes as, warbled to the string,
107Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
108And made Hell grant what love did seek.
109Or call up him that left half told
110The story of Cambuscan bold,
111Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
112And who had Canace to wife,
113That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
114And of the wond'rous horse of brass,
115On which the Tartar king did ride;
116And if aught else, great bards beside,
117In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
118Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
119Of forests, and enchantments drear,
120Where more is meant than meets the ear.
121Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
122Till civil-suited Morn appear,
123Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,
124With the Attic boy to hunt,
125But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
126While rocking winds are piping loud,
127Or usher'd with a shower still,
128When the gust hath blown his fill,
129Ending on the rustling leaves,
130With minute-drops from off the eaves.
131And when the Sun begins to fling
132His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
133To arched walks of twilight groves,
134And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
135Of pine, or monumental oak,
136Where the rude axe with heaved stroke,
137Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
138Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
139There in close covert by some brook,
140Where no profaner eye may look,
141Hide me from Day's garish eye,
142While the bee with honied thigh,
143That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
144And the waters murmuring
145With such consort as they keep,
146Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
147And let some strange mysterious dream,
148Wave at his wings, in airy stream
149Of lively portraiture display'd,
150Softly on my eye-lids laid.
151And as I wake, sweet music breathe
152Above, about, or underneath,
153Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
154Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
155 But let my due feet never fail
156To walk the studious cloister's pale,
157And love the high embowed roof,
158With antique pillars massy proof,
159And storied windows richly dight,
160Casting a dim religious light.
161There let the pealing organ blow,
162To the full-voic'd quire below,
163In service high, and anthems clear,
164As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
165Dissolve me into ecstasies,
166And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
167And may at last my weary age
168Find out the peaceful hermitage,
169The hairy gown and mossy cell,
170Where I may sit and rightly spell
171Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,
172And every herb that sips the dew;
173Till old experience do attain
174To something like prophetic strain.
175These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
176And I with thee will choose to live.
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“Il Penseroso” Introduction
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"Il Penseroso" is one half of Milton's great two-part poetic examination of temperaments. The purpose of this project was to contrast two different flavors of artistic and philosophical attitude. In "L'Allegro," this poem's sister, Milton depicts a light, comic pastoral world governed by the goddess Mirth. Here, by contrast, he explores a contemplative world ruled by the goddess Melancholy. Melancholy's world might look dark, imposing, and lonesome to those who prefer lighthearted, sociable Mirth. But in truth, the beauty of Melancholy is far deeper and richer. Mirth's world is all activity and simple pleasure. Melancholy's world, by contrast, offers the joy of discovery, revealing a transcendent brilliance hidden beneath an outward darkness. The melancholic achieves a deep understanding of this world but also a glimpse of the glories that lie beyond it. Milton probably wrote these sister-poems as a young man, but they weren't collected and published until 1645, when they appeared in Poems of Mr. John Milton.
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“Il Penseroso” Summary
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Get out of here, you false and lying Joys: you're the children of Foolishness and no one else, born without a father. You don't do any good; you only capture people's minds and fill them with useless tomfoolery. Go live in some wandering mind; enrapture foolish imaginations with brightly colored images, countless images that swarm and dance like dust motes in a sunbeam. Or perhaps these images are like dreams: those flighty attendants of Morpheus, the dream-god.
Instead, I offer greetings to you, oh wise and sacred goddess: greetings, holiest Melancholy. Your divine face glows too brightly for human eyes to observe it directly; for that reason, your face seems (to humanity) to be covered in blackness, the color of noble and steadfast Wisdom. Black, yes: but gorgeously black, like the famously beautiful sister of the Ethiopian king Memnon—or black like Cassiopeia, the Ethiopian queen who appears in the stars, who bragged that she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs (and thus made them angry).
But you, Melancholy, have an even more illustrious background than these beauties. You are the child of the bright-haired goddess Vesta and the reclusive god Saturn. (Vesta was also Saturn's daughter; back in the days of the gods, this kind of incest wasn't considered wrong.) Saturn would often meet Vesta in shimmering leafy shelters and meadows, or in the most secret shadows of the forested Mount Ida's innermost woods, back when they didn't need to fear Saturn's son Jove.
Come, meditative nun, who are so deeply religious and chaste, so serious, constant, and decorous. You wear a robe of deepest red with a long, trailing skirt, and you keep your shoulders modestly covered with a black shawl of fine fabric. Come, Melancholy, but don't change your usual way of being: keep your measured, thoughtful way of walking, and keep communing with the heavens, with your enraptured soul plainly visible in your eyes. Keep gazing upward with sacred emotion, caught up in thought for so long that you seem to turn to a marble statue—until at last, with a sad, heavy look downward, you gaze just as steadily at the earth. And bring along with you your gentle friends Peace and Quiet. Bring, too, your friend Fast (or restrained appetite), who so often dines with the gods, listening to the Muses singing in a circle around the altar of Jove. And bring your peaceful friend Leisure, who finds enjoyment in wandering a well-ordered garden. But most importantly of all, bring that friend who I see flying over there on golden wings, guiding the fiery throne that the prophet Ezekiel saw in his vision: the angel Contemplation.
And let Silence keep everyone quiet—unless the nightingale will offer a song that wells up out of her sweet, sad fate, making Night's worried forehead smooth out into peace. Meanwhile, the goddess of the moon will gently slow down the team of dragons that pulls her chariot, hanging over the usual oak tree where she likes to stop. Oh, nightingale, you are a lovely bird, and you disdain the crude noise of foolishness; your song is so melodious, so melancholy! I often go wandering through the woods to hear your music, sweet singer. And if I can't find you, I go for a solitary stroll over the firm, grassy turf to watch the moon rising to her highest point, like a wanderer who has lost her way in the wilderness of the heavens. Often, I see her seeming to lower her head as a soft cloud passes over her.
And often, I stand on a stretch of high ground and hear a faraway evening bell ringing over some great expanse of shoreline; the bell swings slowly and makes its loud, heavy sound. Or, if the weather is bad, I can just as well go to some quiet place indoors, where the glowing coals of a fire make the last light of day seem falsely dark. Here, I'm far from the places where people go to have fun; I only hear the chirp of the cricket that sits by the fire, or the sleepy blessings that the bell-ringer offers to keep people safe overnight.
Or let me sit up with my lamp lit at midnight in some high, isolated tower, where I will often stay up all night (like the constellation Ursa Major does). There, I can read of the mystic wise man Hermes Trismegistus, or call down the spirit of Plato to ask him to reveal what tremendous other worlds contain his deathless mind, which has left its earthly body behind. And I can study the spirits of the fire, air, water, and earth, whose powers chime with the planets or the elements.
From time to time, let me watch while splendid Tragedy comes gliding by in her majestic robes, presenting the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides—or even some of those plays (however rare) of recent years that have done honor to the tragic theatrical tradition.
But better yet, o sad Melancholy, if you can use your powers to summon the legendary poet Musæus from his rest beneath leafy trees—or if you can tell the soul of the mythic musician Orpheus to sing the kind of music that (played to the sound of the harp) made even Pluto (god of the dead) weep tears of iron, persuading him to release Orpheus's wife from the underworld. Or perhaps you can summon Chaucer, the one who never finished telling the story of brave Cambuscan—the story that tells of Camball and Algarsife, and of the man who married Canace, who owned the magical ring and mirror; and the tale of the enchanted brass horse upon which an Asian king rode. And perhaps you might also summon up those great poets who have written profound verses about chivalry and deep forests and dark magic—stories with a secret deeper meaning.
Let the Night often find me relishing these artworks until a soberly dressed Morning arrives. Let the morning not be all dressed up in fancy clothes, the way she looked when she went hunting with her Athenian lover. Rather, let her be wrapped up in a becoming, modest cloud, and let the winds blow loudly. Let her be ushered in with a rainshower after the wind has blown enough; let the rain fall on the rustling leaves, so that they drip slowly.
And when the sun finally starts to throw his bright beams around, bring me, o Melancholy, to cathedral-like paths through dim forests, amid the dark brown shadows that Sylvan (god of the woods) adores—amid pine trees and grand oaks, in regions where the sound of crude axes chopping trees has never scared the forest-spirits away from their sacred places.
In such a wood, concealed in the foliage beside a river, somewhere that unholy eyes can't find me, please hide me from the too-bright eyes of the Day. Let me stay there where the honey-bearing bee sings among the flowers, and where the murmur of the waters (which seem to be talking amongst themselves) can tempt dewy-winged sleep to come to me. And let sleep bring me a strange mysterious dream on his wings, wafting an ethereal breath of vivid images over the insides of my eyelids. And when I wake up, please send me some delicious music, coming from above me or around me or beneath me—a music that some kind spirit sends to virtuous humans, perhaps the invisible spirit of the forest itself.
But never let me forget to spend time in the scholarly cloisters of the monastery: to love being beneath its high arched ceilings, among huge ancient pillars and bright stained-glass windows through which a faint holy light filters. There, let the mighty sound of the organ roll out to the singing choir below, making a clear and noble music that can sweetly reach me through my ears, melting me into religious joy and giving me a glimpse of all of the heavens. And finally, when I'm old and tired, let me find my rest in a quiet hermitage; there, I can put on a rustic robe and live in a moss-covered room where I can sit and truthfully tell of every star in the heavens and every plant that drinks the dew. At last, my long experience of life may carry me to something close to a prophetic creative power.
Melancholy, give me these pleasures, and I will choose to live with you.
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“Il Penseroso” Themes
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The Joys of Melancholy
"Il Penseroso" is one half of Milton's two-part poetic examination of a pair of very different artistic and philosophical temperaments. In contrast with the speaker of "L'Allegro," who dances in the light and cheery footsteps of the goddess Mirth, the speaker of "Il Penseroso" devotes himself to the goddess Melancholy. At first glance, she might seem like a lot less fun. But the rewards she offers her devotees, the speaker fervently affirms, are deeper, realer, and more lasting than any of Mirth's fleeting earthly joys.
He makes this point through a vision of Melancholy as a goddess whose true face is so bright and gorgeous that it can't "hit the sense of human sight": she must mask herself in darkness so that people can bear to look on her. Right from the start, then, Melancholy is about seeing beyond surfaces, understanding that what looks dark and forbidding might in fact conceal an overwhelmingly brilliant truth.
To be a melancholic is to be able to understand that "more is meant than meets the ear"—and thus to bear even the saddest truths about the world, believing that tragedy might merely be the dark face of profound beauty. In this quality of finding redemption and life through suffering and death, rather than in spite of suffering and death, "Il Penseroso" is deeply Christian, in contrast with the pagan merrymaking of "L'Allegro."
Melancholy's deepest reward might be the patience to wait for the visitation of this Christian insight. In one of the poem's most memorable visions, Milton pictures "the cherub Contemplation" flying in Melancholy's entourage: a blazing golden figure taken from the prophetic biblical book of Ezekiel, in which just such an angel appears "guiding the fiery-wheeled throne" of God. Following in Melancholy's contemplative footsteps—choosing quiet, mystery, and darkness over bright, sunny, bustling activity—means making space for such glimpses of divine glory to arrive.
Between these sublime moments, Melancholy also offers its own kinds of quiet pleasure. Pursuing a melancholy life also means pursuing a life of passionate scholarship, peaceful solitude, and introspection, taking profound pleasure in art, nature, and one's own company. Where the mirthful person needs other people to have fun, the melancholic needs only a quiet place to stand alone. Presenting Melancholy as a "pensive nun, devout and pure," the speaker suggests that the melancholy temperament involves a certain symbolic chastity, a self-contained fulfillment born of devotion to eternal truth.
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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The Limitations of Mirth
"Il Penseroso" begins by rejecting "vain deluding Joys": the kinds of pleasures that this speaker's counterpart in "L'Allegro" might wholeheartedly embrace. The speaker of "L'Allegro" celebrates the goddess Mirth, a personification of sociable happiness. But this poem's speaker knows that there's more to life than following one's bliss. Some kinds of joy, this poem's speaker points out, are ultimately hollow and "idle," offering no substance and no lasting reward. But the biggest problem with a life devoted solely to Mirth is that it misses out on the deeper and more lasting pleasure, wisdom, and consolation of a life devoted to Melancholy.
Plenty of joys, this speaker observes, are fleeting and false, offering a moment of pleasure but then fading away as fast as "fickle" dreams. In a large part, that's because many joys are so firmly attached to this world and this life. If one focuses only on life's pleasures—eating, drinking, making merry—then one is hitching one's wagon to a star that is certainly going to fall. Life doesn't last forever, and life's joys won't, either.
Milton makes this point particularly clear in the juxtaposition between the two poems' treatment of religion. While both poems are classical, taking place in the world of the Greco-Roman gods, "L'Allegro" stops there, firmly rooted in the pagan world. "Il Penseroso," by contrast, is pointedly Christian under an outwardly pagan face. It's the melancholy and contemplative thinker, "Il Penseroso" suggests, who can begin to feel the consolations of Christian belief: the assurance that the darkness of death and pain is just a mask for a luminous and eternal beauty beyond. The mirthful person might be too attached to life's pleasures and too frightened of the darkness to embrace this deeper, more difficult, and ultimately more hopeful vision of life and death.
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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The Role of Art in the Contemplative Life
In "L'Allegro," art is a way to keep sad thoughts from the door. (That poem's speaker even goes so far as to fantasize that death itself might be reversible through music, if that music were beautiful enough—intensely wishful thinking.) In "Il Penseroso," by contrast, art is a way of engaging with life's pain and with the mysterious beauty beyond that pain.
If "L'Allegro" embraces comic and consoling art, "Il Penseroso" instead turns to the "buskin'd stage"—that is, the tragic theater and tragic art more generally. (The speaker name-checks the work of three ancient Greek tragedians in particular: Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. A few more recent writers have done some decent tragedies, he allows, but they're "rare.") The poem's speaker values these poets' timeless tragic works as "gorgeous," not bleak or depressing. Perhaps that's in part because his acquaintance with Melancholy herself—a goddess who masks an exceptionally bright face behind a dark exterior—makes it clear to him that there's a lasting beauty behind and within life's darkness.
It's for that reason that this speaker also embraces romance(in the sense of "tales of chivalry," not "love stories"): selected passages of Chaucer, for example, and the tales of "forests, and enchantments drear" in writers like Spenser and Tasso. These often allegorical works, the speaker observes, are ones in which "more is meant than meets the ear." For example, a knight in Spenser might also embody a virtue. Such layered art teaches readers how to interpret it in a melancholy frame of mind, in which many deeper meanings might be found beneath a surface reading.
For the melancholic contemplative, then, art is about finding pleasure, meaning, and illumination in the darkness—not the distraction and fantasy that the mirthful, active person seeks. But the melancholic who has learned to see this paradoxical light might also find an even more intense beauty in art. Listening to church music—the "pealing organ" and the "full-voic'd quire"—this poem's speaker feels as if he's "dissolv[ing] into ecstasies," having a rapturous out-of-body experience in which he sees "all Heav'n before [his] eyes."
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis of “Il Penseroso”
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Lines 1-4
Hence vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys;The speaker of "Il Penseroso" begins this poem by banishing "Joys" from his life. This first line might make readers brace themselves for a somber time, particularly if those readers have just come from "L'Allegro," this poem's sister. "L'Allegro" roughly translates to "The Happy Man," and it's a celebration of a life spent with the goddess Mirth, with all the dancing, romance, fireside storytelling, and "spicy nut-brown ale" that such a life entails. That poem began by banishing the goddess Melancholy, cursing her as a shadowy figure bred in the underworld.
"Il Penseroso," on the other hand, means "The Thoughtful Man"—and this speaker's brand of thoughtfulness seems like a particularly melancholy one.
But look again. This speaker isn't getting rid of all joy. He's just banishing "vain deluding Joys": that is, the kinds of false joys that only mislead and deceive. These kinds of joys are the "brood of Folly without father bred," the children of the personification of Foolishness itself. This image of deluding Joys as fatherless children stresses the idea that these joys are illegitimate: in Milton's stern Puritanical terms, they're the product of lawless promiscuity.
This first metaphor thus suggests that lawless promiscuity itself might be the ideal image of a "vain deluding Joy[]": something that feels pretty fun while it's happening but ultimately has dire consequences. The kinds of joys this speaker is rejecting, he rejects because they're no help to him: they don't "bested" (or prove useful—pronounced be-STED). They're just idle "toys," playthings for the immature, distractions from what really matters.
This will be a poem about looking beyond the surfaces of things to their depths, and one of the first surfaces this speaker looks beyond is the veneer of fun that might lie over bad and hollow ideas.
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Lines 5-10
Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. -
Lines 11-16
But hail thou goddess, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight;
And therefore to our weaker view,
O'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; -
Lines 17-21
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. -
Lines 22-30
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove. -
Lines 31-36
Come pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. -
Lines 37-44
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With ev'n step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast. -
Lines 45-54
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Aye round about Jove's altar sing.
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation; -
Lines 55-62
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak.
Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy! -
Lines 63-72
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'ns wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. -
Lines 73-84
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm. -
Lines 85-96
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those dæmons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element. -
Lines 97-102
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes', or Pelop's line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. -
Lines 103-108
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek. -
Lines 109-120
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else, great bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear. -
Lines 121-130
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute-drops from off the eaves. -
Lines 131-138
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. -
Lines 139-146
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep; -
Lines 147-154
And let some strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his wings, in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. -
Lines 155-160
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light. -
Lines 161-166
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. -
Lines 167-174
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain. -
Lines 175-176
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
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“Il Penseroso” Symbols
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Darkness and Light
Melancholy is a creature of darkness, night, shadow: she's dressed in black (and "darkest grain," red so dark it might as well be black), and her best hour is midnight. But her darkness masks a face "too bright / To hit the sense of human sight." Melancholy's darkness symbolically suggests mystery, obscurity, and surface appearances. It's a darkness that the melancholic thinker learns to understand is only a mask, something that covers a brilliant light symbolizing insight, wisdom, and the divine. The play of dark and light in this poem suggests that to be a melancholic is to understand that "more is meant than meets the ear": that luminous wisdom is found beneath obscure surfaces.
- See where this symbol appears in the poem.
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Virginity and Purity
The poem's many images of "nun[s]" and "Virgin[s]"—from Melancholy herself to the moon goddess Cynthia to Philomel (the mythical chaste woman transformed into a nightingale)—are not really about sexual morality. Rather, they're about a pure, self-contained, and single-minded devotion to the divine. To be a melancholic is to be a person who stays a little apart from others, more interested in hanging out with the "cherub Contemplation" than one's neighbors. A melancholic person's devotion to a hidden brightness behind the world's dark mysteries means that, like a nun, they can be united with the divine, married not to a brief mortal but to God.
- See where this symbol appears in the poem.
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“Il Penseroso” Poetic Devices & Figurative Language
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Imagery
The imagery of "Il Penseroso" mixes a gorgeous gloom with rays of sudden light, making tangible what this speaker believes: that the darkness of melancholy allows brilliant (and even divine) insight to appear.
Melancholy herself offers a prime example, embodying divine light and profound darkness. Her "saintly visage," the speaker says, is "too bright" for human eyes, and must thus be "o'er-laid with black, staid Wisdom's hue" if one is to get a look at her. Wearing a "robe of darkest grain" (deep red) and a "sable stole," she swathes her brightness in rich, dark fabric, beautiful and forbidding at once.
The appropriate places in which to seek Melancholy's company create a similar interplay between light and darkness. A "removed," solitary room in which "glowing embers [...] / Teach light to counterfeit a gloom" offers one option: a place where even light is made to look dark perfectly befits Melancholy. A church will also do: the "dim religious light" that filters through stained glass won't scare Melancholy away. Out of doors, meanwhile, one can't pursue Melancholy under the "flaring beams" of the sun, but only beneath "arched walks of twilight groves / And shadows brown."
While these haunts might feel a touch gloomy, there's no shortage of subtle pleasure in Melancholy's world. The melancholic thinker might "walk unseen / on the dry smooth-shaven green," strolling over a velvet turf. Or he might lie by a secluded stream in a wood to relish the "waters murmuring" and dream dreams that fall "softly" on his eyelids in an "airy stream." Should he seek out the "studious cloister[]" of a church, meanwhile, he'll relish the glories of music, with the "pealing organ" and the "full-voic'd quire" playing tunes of surpassing "sweetness."
To those who seek Melancholy among the shades and glooms, sudden enlightenment may appear. For Melancholy brings with her:
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;There's nothing muted or dim about this angelic figure, the embodiment of deep prayerful thought. Golden wings, fiery wheels: dark Melancholy's company blazes with heavenly light.
- See where this poetic device appears in the poem.
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Juxtaposition
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Allusion
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Personification
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Simile
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Apostrophe
- See where this poetic device appears in the poem.
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"Il Penseroso" Vocabulary
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
- Vain deluding Joys
- The brood of Folly
- Bested
- The fixed mind
- Fancies fond
- The gay motes that people the sunbeams
- Fickle
- Pensioners
- Morpheus
- Sage
- Visage
- O'er-laid
- Staid
- Prince Memnon's sister
- That starr'd Ethiop queen
- Bright-hair'd Vesta
- Solitary Saturn
- Such mixture was not held a stain
- Woody Ida
- Jove
- Pensive
- Grain
- Majestic train
- Sable stole of cypress lawn
- Thy wonted state
- Commercing with the skies
- Rapt
- Forget thyself to marble
- A sad leaden downward cast
- Fast
- Muses
- The fiery-wheeled throne
- The cherub Contemplation
- Hist
- Philomel
- Deign
- Plight
- Cynthia
- Shunn'st
- Chauntress
- Even-song
- Plat
- Curfew
- Removed
- The bellman's drowsy charm
- Oft out-watch the Bear
- Thrice great Hermes
- Forsook
- Dæmons
- Sceptr'd pall
- Thebes, Pelops, Troy
- The buskin'd stage
- Musæus
- Orpheus
- Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
- The story of Cambuscan bold
- Aught
- Tourneys
- Enchantments drear
- Career
- Civil-suited Morn
- Not trick'd and frounc'd
- The Attic boy
- Comely
- Sylvan
- Hallow'd
- Covert
- Profaner
- Garish
- The studious cloister's pale
- Embowed
- Massy proof
- Dight
- Hermitage
- Prophetic strain
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In other words, "empty, deceitful pleasures."
- See where this vocabulary word appears in the poem.
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Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme of “Il Penseroso”
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Form
"Il Penseroso" is one half of a two-part poetic project that John Milton devised as a young man. It has a sister poem, "L'Allegro." Read together, the two poems juxtapose two very different artistic and philosophical temperaments. In this poem, the speaker sings the praises of a life ruled by Melancholy (solemn contemplation). In "L'Allegro," the speaker revels in a life ruled by Mirth (joyous sociability). By exploring the delights and the limitations of these opposed attitudes, Milton seems to ask: what kind of life is best and richest? And what kind of art is best and richest?
The tone of "Il Penseroso" is reflective, and its landscape is dim and mysterious—very different from the cheer of "L'Allegro." But formally, this poem is nearly identical to its sister:
- Like "L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso" begins with a ten-line passage in which the speaker banishes a personification of the temperament that displeases him. This speaker tells "vain deluding Joys" to get out of his life. (His counterpart, meanwhile, tells "loathed Melancholy" to leave and never come back.) This passage uses a varied meter and a complex rhyme scheme. (More on that in the "Meter" and "Rhyme Scheme" sections of this guide.)
- Once that ten-line banishment is out of the way, the speaker launches into a much longer passage (166 lines) in which he praises his chosen goddess and conjures up a vision of what his life might be like in her service. This passage is written in neat couplets of tetrameter (lines with four beats apiece, as in "But hail | thou god- | dess, sage | and holy).
It's in this second section that "Il Penseroso" breaks from the pattern of "L'Allegro":
- The speaker of "L'Allegro" offers his praise of Mirth in one long straight shot of 142 lines.
- The speaker of "Il Penseroso," meanwhile, unfolds his ideas for 24 lines more than his counterpart does. He also divides those lines up differently. The final 22 lines of the poem, in which the speaker imagines living out a long life as a religious scholar and a wise hermit, form a stanza of their own.
Perhaps it's no wonder that the contemplative speaker of "Il Penseroso" should take more time to paint his picture of the good life—and that he should introduce a thoughtful pause before he depicts his highest goals.
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Meter
The rhythm of “Il Penseroso” is mostly iambic: in other words, the poem typically uses iambs, metrical feet with a da-DUM rhythm. But Milton doesn’t stick to exactly the same meter all the way through. Instead, he uses a changed meter to mark a turning point in the speaker’s thoughts.
The first 10 lines of the poem, in which the speaker rejects “vain deluding joys” in favor of the goddess Melancholy, use a quite different rhythm to the poem’s remaining 166 lines. In this opening passage, the lines move back and forth between short lines of trimeter (three iambs in a row) and long lines of pentameter (five iambs in a row). Here’s how that sounds in lines 1-2:
Hence vain | delu- | ding Joys,
The brood | of Fol- | ly with- | out fath- | er bred,This rhythm helps to make the speaker’s words (already deadly serious) feel even more solemn. There’s no steady momentum here. Rather, the lines seem to swing slowly back and forth, like a church bell tolling the death knell of those vain deluding joys.
Once the speaker has gotten rid of false joy and turned to embrace Melancholy, his meter finds a different, steadier rhythm. The rest of the poem is written in tetrameter—that is, lines with four beats apiece. The speaker most often writes in iambic tetrameter (lines of four iambs), like this:
But hail | thou god- | dess, sage | and holy,
(The extra unstressed syllable on that line is what’s known as a “feminine ending”; it gives the line a soft, dissolving quality.)
But the poem isn’t rigidly iambic. Sometimes the speaker switches to trochaic tetrameter: that is, lines of four trochees, the opposite feet to iambs, with a DUM-da rhythm. Here’s how that sounds in lines 81-82:
Far from | all re- | sort of | mirth,
Save the | cricket | on the | hearth,(And in these lines there’s a missing unstressed syllable at the end, creating a bold but airy sound: the rhythm demands that readers leap a broad space between lines here.)
Milton also makes one exception to the rule of tetrameter in the speaker's praise of Melancholy. A different rhythm comes along in line 121:
Thus, Night, | oft see | me in | thy pale | career,
This line uses iambic pentameter—five iambs in a row. The drawn-out line feels fitting here: it comes at the end of the speaker's description of a long, long night spent in deep contemplation of art and philosophy.
To readers who have encountered this poem’s sister (“L’Allegro,” or—roughly—“The Happy Man”), Milton’s metrical choices here might feel familiar. The same rhythms appear in that very different poem. The similarity between the two poems' meters helps to make them feel like a pair; perhaps it also encourages readers to note what's different in these two visions of life.
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Rhyme Scheme
“Il Penseroso” follows the same pattern of rhyme as its sister poem, “L’Allegro.” Both poems start with a 10-line passage in which the speaker banishes a temperament he has no time for: the speaker of "L'Allegro" casts out Melancholy, while this poem's speaker does away with "false deluding Joys." Here as in "L'Allegro," the poem uses a varied rhyme scheme in this passage. The rhymes run like this:
ABBACDDEEC
These stately rhymes command attention. Because they don’t fall into an easily predictable pattern, they keep the reader listening hard to the speaker's stern condemnation of fleeting, empty pleasures. The long gap between C rhymes is especially potent: when the second C rhyme finally arrives, it’s like a door firmly closing.
When the speaker turns to his praise of Melancholy, however, his rhymes fall into easy couplets:
FFGGHHII
…and so on, for the rest of the poem. (Only in lines 119-122 is there a slight variation: here, Milton uses four rhymes in a row, drear / ear / career / appear.)
In both “L’Allegro” and “Il Penseroso,” there’s a striking contrast between the complex rhymes in the 10-line “banishment” section and the steady couplets of the “praise” section. The difference might illustrate something about the two speakers’ different natures. Each of these men choose the temperament they prefer—Mirth in the one case, Melancholy in the other. And when they’ve chosen it, their rhymes begin to flow freely. It’s as if they’ve taken off heavy boots and stepped into a pair of comfortable slippers.
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“Il Penseroso” Speaker
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The speaker of “Il Penseroso” is the epitome of the melancholic temperament. In Milton’s time and place, to be a melancholic wasn’t just to be a gloomy type, though that’s certainly part of the picture. (Nowadays, doctors might diagnose the darker side of melancholy—a state of grim, hopeless paralysis perhaps most famously depicted by Albrecht Dürer—as clinical depression.) But melancholics were also the world’s scholars, philosophers, and artists: deep thinkers who contemplated the divine.
Suspicious of “vain deluding Joys”—false and lying pleasures—this melancholic speaker turns instead to follow Melancholy herself, a temperament personified here as a “goddess, sage and holy.” In this speaker’s view, a contemplative life of melancholy is a life attuned to true, heavenly joy, not temporary and misleading earthly pleasure. Though he acknowledges that Melancholy can look stern and terrible, he also insists that’s only because we mortal human beings are too “weak[]” to see her “saintly visage” properly. In fact, her face is “too bright” for our eyes—too luminous with heavenly beauty and wisdom. Seeing Melancholy clearly, he feels, demands that one look beyond what seems like a dark and forbidding face to the dazzle beyond.
This speaker thus comes across as a penetrating thinker and a patient scholar, one capable of perceiving when "more is meant than meets the ear," and one capable of enduring struggle and suffering in pursuit of "something like prophetic strain." In other words: by following in the footsteps of Melancholy, he hopes one day to become a poet of prophetic power, able to perceive and sing of divine truths. Some scholars see a self-portrait of the young Milton here, a man choosing to dedicate himself to high and serious poetic work.
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“Il Penseroso” Setting
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Like its sister poem "L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso" is set in an enchanted countryside, a timeless place haunted by the classical gods. But there's a marked difference between the two poems' landscapes:
- "L'Allegro" is purely and cheerfully pastoral. That is, it's set in a version of Arcadia, a mythic land of happy shepherds and eternal summer made famous by classical poets like Virgil. The mirthful speaker of "L'Allegro" lives in a bustling rural community; there's always someone nearby with whom one can hoist a "spicy nut-brown ale."
- In "Il Penseroso," by contrast, the countryside is dark, moody, deeply wooded, and sparsely populated. Under the protection of the goddess Melancholy, the speaker can "walk unseen," with no noisy people standing between him and the contemplation of deep truths.
The beauty of nature plays a major role in both poems. But where nature offers a hearty living and a backdrop for rural fun in "L'Allegro," it's a refuge for solitary thinkers in "Il Penseroso," sheltering contemplative hermits and cloistered monasteries.
And that points to another major contrast between the landscapes of "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso." "L'Allegro" is pagan and folkloric: it's presided over by Greco-Roman gods and English fairies. But the world of "Il Penseroso" is Christian.
As he lays his plans to live with Melancholy, the speaker asks her to bring "the cherub Contemplation" in her entourage—a figure he imagines as "guiding the fiery-wheeled throne." This vision of an angel steering a flaming throne alludes to the biblical story of the prophet Ezekiel, who sees a vision of God seated upon just such a grand and terrifying throne. This speaker's melancholic contemplation, then, is pointed toward an immense vision of the divine. Some critics argue that the deeper religious dimension in "Il Penseroso" suggests that the devoutly Christian Milton valued the insight of Melancholy over the delight of Mirth.
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Literary and Historical Context of “Il Penseroso”
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Literary Context
John Milton (1608-1674) is honored as one of the greatest of the English poets. He's most famous for his epic poem Paradise Lost, a retelling of Adam and Eve's banishment from the Garden of Eden—a work whose stated aim was nothing less than "to justify the ways of God to men." Milton wasn't shy of a project.
"Il Penseroso" (which roughly translates to "The Thoughtful Man") is one of Milton's earlier works and one half of a two-part poetic experiment: it has a sister, "L'Allegro" (or "The Happy Man"). While "L'Allegro" celebrates an active life governed by Mirth, "Il Penseroso" honors a contemplative life governed by Melancholy.
These poems, like Milton's great elegy "Lycidas," in some ways feel preparatory. While scholars haven't been able to firmly date "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso" (which were first collected in the 1645 Poems of Mr. John Milton), most agree that Milton wrote them as a young man, perhaps not long out of university. In the contrast between "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso," one can see Milton working out his relationship with different schools of artistic thought and different philosophical attitudes. (It seems not unfair to say that, as a writer, he's more naturally a Penseroso than an Allegro.)
These poems also draw on the pastoral genre, a long and storied literary tradition. Pastoral poetry has its roots in ancient Greece, whose poets first wrote of an imagined "Arcadia": a mythical land of plenty, youth, and pleasure, populated by nymphs and rustics and an abundance of sheep. The Roman poet Virgil developed the form in his influential Eclogues. In one way or another, the pastoral genre kept on popping up over the centuries, but in England it became particularly popular in the late 16th century, about a generation before Milton. Milton (and his contemporaries, like Andrew Marvell) embraced a form so well-worn that it had already spawned plenty of mockery, making it their own.
It would be hard to overstate Milton's enduring effect on literature. His poetry has been a touchstone for generations, from 19th-century Romantics like Blake and Byron (who delighted in the charismatic, rebellious Satan of Paradise Lost) right up to contemporary writers like Philip Pullman.
Historical Context
Milton probably wrote this poem as a young man in the early 1630s, but he published it in 1645: right in the teeth of the English Civil War. In this bloody conflict, anti-monarchist forces led by Oliver Cromwell rose up against King Charles I, fighting for increased Parliamentary power as a curb on royal tyranny. (That argument would start to look ironic later, when a temporarily victorious Cromwell began to behave not unlike a dictator in his role as "Lord Protector.") The resultant wars tore the British Isles apart for a decade and uprooted ancient certainties. Milton became embroiled in the era's many dramatic turns of the political tide.
The English Civil War was prompted in part by religious disagreements. Cromwell’s government was much more sympathetic to Puritanism—a particularly strict and abstemious branch of Protestant Christianity—than the King’s government had been. For a devout Puritan intellectual like Milton, Cromwell’s revolution thus sounded like a great opportunity to help build a country that aligned with his religious beliefs.
Milton threw himself whole-heartedly into this project, writing pamphlets and tracts defending the revolution and Cromwell. He eventually became Cromwell’s Latin Secretary: in other words, the man tasked with defending Cromwell to the most important intellectual figures of Europe. (Latin was, at the time, the language of the learned, spoken by educated people across the Continent and the British Isles.) This was a task that grew particularly pressing and delicate after Cromwell's forces convicted Charles I of treason and beheaded him.
But Cromwell's power didn't hold, and in 1660, Charles I's son, Charles II, returned from exile in France to retake the throne. This left Milton in a bind. If it hadn't been for some fast talking from his influential friend Andrew Marvell (who was always strategically quiet about his personal political opinions), Milton might well have ended up in jail—or worse.
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More “Il Penseroso” Resources
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External Resources
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Portraits of Milton — Take a look at some portraits of John Milton via London's National Portrait Gallery.
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A Brief Biography — Read the Poetry Foundation's short overview of Milton's life and work.
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Blake's Illustrations — Admire some watercolor illustrations for "Il Penseroso" (and "L'Allegro") by the great English Romantic poet and artist William Blake. Milton was a major influence on Blake and the other Romantics.
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The Poem Aloud — Listen to a reading of the poem.
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LitCharts on Other Poems by John Milton
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