MILTO

JOHANNIS

Q

4

UI legis Amiffam Paradifum, grandia Carmina Miltoni, quid nifi cuncta leg 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, cœlumque profu Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque fj Quæque colunt terras, pontumque, & Tartara Quæque colunt fummi lucida regna poli: Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufq Et fine fine Chaos, & fine fine Deus: Er fine fine magis, fi quid magis eft fine fine, In Chrifto erga homines conciliatus amor. Hec qui fperaret quis crederet effe futura?

t fax

Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit. O quantos in bella duces! quæ protulit arına Quæ canit, & quanta prælia dira tuba! Cœleftes acies! atque in certamine cœlum! quæ coeleftes 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!

Et

VOL. I.

-A

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 Metfiæ 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 afylum,
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.

W

ON PARADISE LOST.
HEN 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 misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The facred truths to fable and old fong,
(So Sampfon grop'd the temple's pofts in fpite)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his fight.

Yet

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

Or if a work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was that fome less skilful 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 fcenes, and fhow it in a play.
Pardon me, mighty Poet; nor defpife
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 majefty which through thy work doth reign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane. And things divine thou treat't of in fuch state As them preferves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us feize, Thou fing'st with so much gravity and ease And above human flight doft foar aloft With plume so strong, fo equal, and fo foft. The bird nam'd from that Paradise you fing So never flags, but always keeps on wing. A a

Where

Where couldst thou words of fuch a compass find?
Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of mind?
Juft Heaven thee, like Tirefias, to requite
Rewards with prophecy thy lofs of fight.

43

Well might'st thou scorn 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-horse tires without his
bells;
Their fancies like our bushy-points appear,
The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.
I too, transported by the mode, offend,
And while I meant to praise thee muft commend.
Thy verfe created like thy theme fublime,
Number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.
ANDREW MARVELL

#

To Mr. JOHN MILTON, On his Poem entitled PARADISE LOST. “ལྟ ཟྭ

.1 10

Thou! the wonder of the
An age immerst in luxury and vice;
A race of triflers; 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 furvey

1

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 justify the ways of God to Man.".

F. C. 1680.

TH

HE measure is English heroic verse without rhyme, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin; rhyme being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse, in longer works especially, but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame meter; graced indeed fince by the ufe of fome famous modern poets, carried away by cuftom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to exprefs many things otherwife, and for the most part worse than else they would have expreffed them. Not without caufe therefore fome both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme both in longer and fhorter works, as have also long fince our beft English tragedies, as a thing of itself, to all judicious ears, trivial and of no true mufical delight; which confists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of fyllables, and the fense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling found of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned Ancients both in poetry and all good oratory. This neglect then VOL. I. of

B