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PARADISUM AMISSAM

SUMMI POETAE

JOANNIS MILTONI.

UI legis AMISSAM PARADISUM, grandia Magni
Carmina MILTONI, quid nifi cuncta legis?

QUI

Res cunctas, et cunctarum primordia rerum

Et fata, et fines, continet ifte liber.

Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi;
Scribitur et toto quicquid in orbe latet :
Terraeque, tractufque maris, coelumque profundum,
Sulphureufque EREBI, flammivomufque fpecus.
Quaeque colunt terras, pontumque, et TARTARI caeca ;
Quaeque colunt fummi lucida regna poli.

Et quodcumque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam;
Et fine fine CHAOS, et fine fine DEUS:
Et fine fine magis, (fi quid magis eft fine fine)
In CHRISTO erga homines conciliatus amor.
Haec qui fperaret, quis crederet effe futura?

Et tamen haec hodiè terra BRITANNA legit.
O quantos in bella Duces! quae protulit arma!
Quae canit et quantâ praelia dira tubâ!
Coeleftis acies! atque in certamine coelum!
deceret agros!

Et quae

coeleftes pugna Quantus in aetheriis tollit fe LUCIFER armis ! Atque ipfo graditur vix MICHAELE minor!

Quanth,

Dum ferus hic ftellas protegit, ille rapit! Dum vulfos montes, ceu tela reciproca, torquent; Et non mortali defuper igne pluunt; Stat dubius cui fe parti concedat OLYMPUS; Et metuit pugnae non fupereffe fuae. At fimul in coelis MESSIAE infignia fulgent, Et currus animes, armaque digna DEO; Horrendúmque rotae ftrident, et faeva rotarum Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus ; Et flammae vibrant, et vera tonitrua rauco Admiftis flammis infonuere polo : Excidit attonitis mens omnis, et impetus omnis, Et caflis dextris irrita tela cadunt.

Ad poenas fugiunt; et (ceu foret ORCUS afylum !) Infernis certant condere fe tenebris.

Cedite ROMANI Scriptores, cedite GRAII,

Et quos FAMA recens, vel celebravit anus: Haec quicunque leget, tantùm ceciniffe putabit MAEONIDEM Ranas, VIRGILIUM Culices.

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W HEN I beheld THE POET blind, yet bold,

In flender book his vaft design unfold;

MESSIAH crown'd, GOD's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling Angels, the forbidden Tree,

Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All! the argument
Held me a-while mifdoubting his intent;
That he would ruin (for I faw him strong)
The facred Truths to fable, and old fong:
So SAMPSON grop'd the temple's pofts in fpight,
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his fight.

YET as I read, foon growing lefs fevere,
I lik'd his project, the fuccefs did fear ;
Through that wide field how he his way fhould find,
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind;
Left he perplex'd the things he would explain,
And what was easy, he should render vain.

OR, if a work fo infinite he fpann'd,
Jealous I was that fome lefs fkilful hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excell)

Might hence prefume, the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and fhew it in a play.

PARDON me, MIGHTY POET! nor despise
My caufelefs, yet not impious, furmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a share.

Thou haft not mifs'd one thought that could be fit;
And all that was improper dost omit:

So

But to detect their ignorance, or theft.

THAT majefty, which through thy work doth reign, Draws the devour, deterring the profane : And Things divine, thou treat'it of in fuch ftate, As them preferves, and thee inviolate. At once delight and horror on us feise, Thou fing'ft with fo much gravity and ease; And above human flight doft foar aloft, With plume fo ftrong, fo equal, and fo foft! The bird nam'd from that Paradise you fing So never flags, but always keeps on wing.

WHERE Could't thou words of fuch a compafs find? Whence furnish fuch a vast expense of mind? Juft Heav'n thee, like TIRESIAS, to requite, Rewards with prophefy thy lofs of fight.

WELL might'ft thou fcorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own fenfe fecure; While the TOWN-BAYS writes all the while and spells, And like a pack-horfe, tires without his bells. Their fancies like our bufhy-points appear, The Poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I too tranfported by the mode commend; And while I mean to praise thee, must offend. Thy Verfe created like thy theme fublime,

In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme,

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TH

By MILTON.

HE measure is ENGLISH Heroic Verfe, without Rhyme, as that of HOMER in Greek, and of VIRGIL in Latin; Rhyme being no neceffary adjunct, or true ornament of Poem or good verse, in longer works efpecially; but the invention of a barbarous age, to fet-off wretched matter and lame metre; grac'd indeed fince by the use of fome famous modern Poets carried away by cuftom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwife, and for the most part worse, than elfe they would have exprest them. Not without cause, therefore, fome, both ITALIAN and SPANISH, Poets of prime note, have rejected Rhyme, both in longer and shorter works; as have alfo long fince our beft ENGLISH Tragedies; as a thing of itself, to all judicious Ears, trivial and of no true mufical delight; which confifts only in apt Numbers, fit quantity of fyllables, and the fenfe variously drawn out from one verfe into another not in the jingling found of like endings; a fault avoided by the learned Antients both in Poetry, and all good Oratory. This neglect then of Rhyme fo little is to be taken for a defect, though it may feem fo perhaps to vulgar readers, that it rather is to be esteem'd an example fet, the firft in ENGLISH, of antient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem, from the troublesome and modern bondage of Rhyming.

THE

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