Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cun&a legis ?
Res cunctas, & cunctarum primordia rerum,
Et fata, & fines continet ifte liber.
Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi,
Scribitur & toto quicquid in orbe latet :
Terræque, tractufque maris, coelumque profundum,
Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque fpecus:
Quæque colunt terras, pontumque, & Tartara cæca,
Quæque colunt fummi lucida regna poli:
Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam,
Et fine fine Chaos, & fine fine Deus :
Et fine fine magis, fi quid magis est fine fine,
In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hæc qui fperaret quis crederet esse futura ?
Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit. -
O quantos in bella duces! quæ protulit armad
Quæ canit, & quanta prælia dira tuba !
Cœleftes acies! atque in certamine cœlum!
Et quæ cœleftes pugna deceret agros!
Quantus in æthereis tollit fe Lucifer armis !
Atque ipfo graditur vix Michaële minor!
Quantis, &
quam funeftis concurritur iris,
Dum ferus hic ftellas protegit, ille rapit !
Dum vulfos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent,
Et non mortali defuper igne pluunt:
Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus,
Et metuit pugnæ non fupereffe fuæ.
At fimul in cœlis Meffiæ infignia fulgent,
Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
Horrendumque rotæ ftrident, et fæva rotarum
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
Et flammæ vibrant, & vera tonitrua rauco
Admiftis flammis infonuere polo :
Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis,
Et caffis dextris irrita tela cadunt;
Ad pœnas fugiunt, & ceu foret Orcus asylum,
Infernis certant condere fe tenebris.
Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii,
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantùm cecinisse putabit
Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.
SAMUEL BARROW, M. D.
ON PARADISE LOST.
WHEN I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In flender book his vaft design unfold,
Meffiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling Angels, the forbidden tree,
Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument
Held me a while mifdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The facred truths to fable and old feng,
(So Sampfon grop'd the temple's posts in spite)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his fight.
Yet as I read, 'Itill growing less 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 eafy he should render vain.
Or if a work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was that fome lefs fkilful hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)
Might hence prefume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.
Pardon me, mighty Poet; nor despise
My causeless, 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 doft omit :
So that no room is here for writers left,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.
That majesty which through thy work doth reign,* Draws the devout, deterring the profane.
And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us seize,
Thou fing'ft with so much gravity and ease;
And above human flight dost 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.
A 2
Where couldst thou words of fuch a compass.find › Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of mind? Just Heaven thee, like Tirefias, to requite Rewards with prophecy thy lofs of fight.
Well might'ft thou.fcorn.thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure;
While the town-bays writes all the while and fpells,
And like a pack-horse tires without his bells:
Their fancies like our bushy-points appear,
The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.
I too, tranfported by the mode, offend,
And while I meant to praise thee must commend.
Thy verse created like thy theme sublime,
Number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.
To Mr. JOHN MILTON,
On his Poem entitled PARADISE LOST.
Thou! the wonder of the prefent age,
An age immerst in luxury and vice;
A race of trifiers; who can relish naught
But the gay iffue of an idle brain:
How couldst thou hope to please this tinsel race?
Though blind, yet with the penetrating eye
Of intellectual light thou doft survey
The labyrinth perplex'd of Heaven's decrees;
And with a quill, pluck'd from an angel's wing,
Dipt in the fount that laves th' eternal throne,
Trace the dark, paths of providence divine,
"And juftify the ways of God to Man."
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