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TODD'S ORIGIN OF PARADISE LOST.

will probably arise from the pursuits of those, who are devoted to patient and liberal investigation. Videlicet hoc illud est præcipuè studiorum genus, quod vigiliis augescat; ut cui subinde ceu fluminibus ex decursu, sic accedit ex lectione minutatìm quo fiat uberius. To such persons may be recommended the masterly observations of him, who was once so far imposed upon as to believe Lauder an honest man, and Milton a plagiary: but who expressed, when "Douglas and Truth appeared,"" the strongest indignation against the envious impostor: for they are observations resulting from a wish not to depreciate, but zealously to praise, the Paradise Lost. "Among the inquiries, to which this ardour of criticism has naturally given occasion, none is more obscure in itself, or more worthy of rational curiosity, than a retrospect of the progress of this mighty genius in the construction of his work; a view of the fabric gradually rising, perhaps, from small beginnings, till its foundation rests in the center, and its turrets sparkle in the skies; to trace back the structure, through all its varieties, to the simplicity of its first plan; to find what was first projected, whence the scheme was taken, how it was improved, by what assistance it was executed, and from what stores the materials were collected; whether its founder dug them from the quarries of Nature, or demolished other buildings to embellish his own.” I may venture to add that, in such inquiries, patience will be invigorated rather than dispirited; and every new discovery will teach us more and more to admire the genius, the erudition, and the memory of the inimitable Milton.

6 Politian. Miscellaneorum Præf.

7 The Progress of Envy, an excellent poem occasioned by Lauder's attack on the character of Milton. See Lloyd's Poems, last line of Progress of Envy.

So bishop Douglas told the affectionate biographer of Dr. Johnson. See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Vol. I. p. 197, Edit. 1799.

See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Vol. I. p. 199.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

ON

MILTON.

IN PARADISUM AMISSAM SUMMI POETE, JOHANNIS

MILTONI

Et non mortali desuper igne pluunt:

Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus,
Et metuit pugnæ non superesse suæ.

Qui legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni At simul in cœlis Messiæ insignia fulgent,

Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cuncta legis ?
Res cunctas, et cunctarum primordia rerum,
Et fata, et tines, continet iste liber.
Inti ma panduntur magni penetralia mundi,
Scribitur et toto quicquid in orbe latet:
Terræque, tractusque maris, cœlumque profun-

dum,

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Et sine fine Chaos, et sine fine Deus;
Et sine fine magis, si quid magis est sine fine,
In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hæc qui speraret quis crederet esse futurum ?

Et tamen hæc hodiè terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella duces ! quæ protulit arma !
Quæ canit, et quantâ prælia dira tubâ!
Cœlestes acies! atque in certamine cœlum !
Et quæ cœlestes pugna deceret agros!
Quantus in æthereis tollit se Lucifer armis !
Atque ipso graditur vix Michaële minor !
Quantis, et quàm funestis concurritur iris,

Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit!
Dum vulsos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent,

1 This poem by Dr. Barrow, and the next by Milton's friend Andrew Marvel, have been usually published in the editions of Paradise Lost, since the edition of 1674, to which they are both prefixed. TODD.

Et currus animes, armáque digna Deo,
Horrendúmque rotæ strident, et sæva rotarum
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,

Et flaminæ vibrant, et vera tonitrua rauco
Admistis flammis insonuere polo:

Excidit attonitis mens omnis, et impetus omnis,

Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt;
Ad pœnas fugiunt; et, ceu foret Orcus asylum,"
Infernis certant condere se tenebris,
Cedite, Romani scriptores; cedite, Graii;

Et quos fama recens vel celebravit annus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantùm cecinisse putabit
Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.
'SAMUEL BARROW, M.D3..

ON PARADISE LOST.

WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah 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 sacred truths to fable and old song ;
(So Sampson grop'd the temple's posts in spight)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

* Of Dr. Samuel Barrow, the author of these verses, no account has been given by the editors of Milton. Toland only calls him a doctor of physic. Perhaps he was the physician to the army of general Monk. TODD.

Yet as I read, still growing less severe, I lik'd his project, the success did fear; Through that wild field how he his way should find,

O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;

Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite he spann'd, Jealous I was that some less skilful hand (Such as disquiet always what is well, And, by ill imitating, would excell)

Might hence presume 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, surmise.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.

Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be, fit,

And all that was improper dost 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.

How couldst thou hope to please this tinsel race?

Though blind, yet, with the penetrating eye
Of intellectual light, thou dost 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 the eternal throne,
Trace the dark paths of Providence Divine,
"And justify the ways of God to man."

F. C. 1680.

THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next, in majesty; in both, the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go:
To make a third, she join'd the former two 5.

DRYDEN.

FROM AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST ENGLISH POET⚫

And things divine thou treat'st of in such state Bur Milton next, with high and haughty stalks
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horrour on us seize,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease;
And above human flight dost soar aloft
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.
The bird, nam'd from that Paradise you sing,
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where couldst thou words of such a compass
find?

Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind?
Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.

Well might'st thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; 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, must commend.

Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime,
In number weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.

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Unfetter'd, in majestic numbers, walks:
No vulgar hero can his Muse engage,.
Nor Earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! see! he upward springs, and, towering high,
Spurns the dull province of mortality;
Shakes Heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets the Almighty Thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilst every verse array'd in majesty,
Bold and sublime, my whole intention draws,
And seems above the critic's nicer laws.
How are you struck with terrour and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's outspread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What sound of brazen wheels, with thunder, scare
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire:
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scene of Paradise;
What tongue, that words of rapture, can express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness!

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4 The expressions, in this line, occur in one of Constable's Sonnets.

The pen wherewith thow dost so heauenly singe Made of a quill pluckt from an angell's winge. So, in Davies's Bien Venu, 1606. But poet's pens pluckt from archangels' wings.

5 This celebrated epigram on Milton appears under the well-engraved head of the poet by R. White, prefixed to the folio edition of Paradise Lost in 1688. It has been thus published in many succeeding editions of the same poem. Dryden, I should add, is a subscriber to the edition of 1688, TODD.

ADDRESS TO GREAT BRITAIN.

-For lofty sense, Creative fancy, and inspection keen Through the deep windings of the human heart, Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boast ? Is not each great, each amiable Muse Of classic ages in thy Milton met? A genius, universal as his theme; Astonishing as Chaos; as the bloom

Of blowing Eden fair; as Heaven sublime! THOMSON'S SUMMER.

ODE TO THE MUSE.

SAY, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying, flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall I gain,

To win thee back with some celestial strain?

O powerful strain! O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself, returns!

AKENSIDE.

OUR stedfast bard, to his own genius true,
Still bade his Muse, "fit audience find, though
"few."

Scorning the judgement of a trifling age,
To choicer spirits he bequeath'd his page.
He too was scorn'd; and, to Britannia's shame,
She scarce for half an age knew Milton's name.
But now, his fame by every trumpet blown,
We on his deathless trophies raise our own.
Nor art nor nature did his genius bound;

Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, he survey'd around;
All things his eye, through wit's bright empire

thrown,

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Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering
rhymes,
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise!
Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close Malevolence, or public Rage;
Let Study, worn with Virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall
tell,

That never Britain can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;

And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his towering name:
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.
Unknown,-unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threatening o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire;
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble Virtue's,native charms,
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.
Dr. Johnson's Prologue to the Mask of Comus,

acted at Drury-Lane Theatre, April 5, 1750,
for the Benefit of Milton's Grand-daugh
ter.

Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy;
NOR second he that rode sublime
The secrets of the abyss to spy,

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.

GRAY'S PROGRESS OF POESY.

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

HIGH on some cliff, to Heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where tangled round the jealous steep
Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head
An Eden, like his own, lies spread;

I view that oak the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

Nigh spher'd in Heaven, its native strains could hear,

On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,
With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;
In vain:- Such bliss to one alone

Of all the sons of soul was known;

And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers,
Have now o'erturn'd the inspiring bowers,

To the fell house of Busyrane, he led
The unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,
When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim
Came towering, arm'd in adamant and gold.

APART, and on a sacred hill retir'd,
Beyond all mortal inspiration fir'd,
The mighty Milton sits :-An host around
Of listening angels guard the holy ground;

Or curtain'd close such scene from every fu- Amaz'd they see a human form aspire ture view.

ODE TO MEMORY.

COLLINS.

RISE, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say,
How, at thy gloomy close of day;
How, when "depress'd by age, beset with
wrongs;"

When "fall'n on evil days and evil tongues:"
When Darkness, brooding on thy sight,
Exil'd the sov'reign lamp of light:

Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse;
What friends were thine, save Memory and the
Muse?

Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth
Caught from the stores of ancient Truth:
Hence all thy busy eye could pleas'd explore,
When Rapture led thee to the Latian shore;
Each scene, that Tiber's bank supplied;
Each grace, that play'd on Arno's side;
The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly;
The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky;
Were still thine own: thy ample mind
Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd,
And thence "the nightly visitant," that came
To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame,
Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace;
That whilom shot from Nature's face,
When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast
Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gor-
geous vest.

MASON.

FROM THE REV. THOMAS WARTON'S ADDRESS TO THE
PRESENT QUEEN ON HER MARRIAGE.

Lo! this the land, whence Milton's Muse of fire
High soar'd to steal from Heaven a seraph's lyre;
And told the golden ties of wedded love
In sacred Eden's amarantine grove.

To grasp with daring band a seraph's lyre
Inly irradiate with celestial beams,
Attempt those high, those soul-subduing themes,
(Which humbler denizens of Heaven decline,)
And celebrate, with sanctity divine,
The starry field from warring angels won,
And God triumphant in his Victor son.
Nor less the wonder, and the sweet delight,
His milder scenes and softer notes excite,
When, at his bidding, Eden's blooming grove
Breathes the rich sweets of innocence and love.
With such pure joy as our forefather knew
When Raphael, Heavenly guest, first met his
view,

And our glad sire, within his blissful bower,
Drank the pure converse of the etherial Power,
Round the best bard his raptur'd audience
throng,

And feel their souls imparadis'd in song.

HAYLEY'S ESSAY ON EPIC POETRY, EPIST. II.

AGES elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd,
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard:
To carry Nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.
Thus Genius rose and set at order'd times,
And shot a day-spring into distant climes,
Ennobling every region that he chose;
He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ;
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd,
Emerg'd all splendour in our isle at last.
Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main,
Then show far off their shining plumes again.

COWPER'S TABLE TALK.

PHILOSOPHY, baptiz'd

In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees
As meant to indicate a God to man,
Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.
Learning has borne such fruit in other days
On all her branches: Fiety has found
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews.
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage!

FROM THE DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT IN THE SAME AU- Sagacious reader of the works of God,

THOR'S PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.

Non then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My senses lead through flowery paths of joy;
But let the sacred Genius of the night
Such mystic visions send, as Spencer saw,
When through bewildering Fancy's magic

maze,

And in his word sagacious. Such too thine,
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom
Our British Themis gloried with just cause,
Immortal Hale! for deep discernment prais'd,
And sound integrity, not more than fam'd
For sanctity of manners undefil'd.

COWPER'S AUTHOR'S TASK, B. IH.

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