Milton

He left the upland lawns and serene air
Wherefrom his soul her noble nature drew,
And reared his helm among the unquiet crew
Battling beneath; the morning radiance rare
Of his young brows amid the tumult there

Grew grim with sulphurous dust and sanguine dew;
Yet through all soilure they who marked him knew
The signs of his life's dayspring, calm and fair,
But when peace came, peace fouler far than war,
And mirth more dissonant than battle's tone.

He, with a scornful sigh of his clear soul,
Back to his mountain clomb, now bleak and frore,
And with the awful Night he dwelt alone,
In darkness, listening to the thunder's roll.