Excerpt from The Puritans

Milton.

O warrior elders, guardians of the gate,

Hath the night brought your watching any word,

Or doth the dawn bear any beam of truth

To our sick minds which all the dim night's length

A flying formless rumour makes afraid,

Boding some piteous wrong at Leicester wrought?

For this have I come down to stand with you,

If haply from your outlook on the wall

We may descry what shall make end of fear.

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