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In PARADISUM AMISSA M fummi poetæ JOANNIS MILTONI.

Q

UI legis Amiffam Paradisum, grandia magni
Carmina Miltoni, quid nifi cuncta legis?

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:

Terræque, tractufque maris, cælumque profundum,
Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque fpecus:
Quæque colunt terras, pontumque, et tartara cæca,
Quæque colunt fummi lucida regna poli:
Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam,
Et fine fine Chaos, et fine fine Deus:

Et fine fine magis, fi quid magis eft fine fine,
In Chrifto erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hæc qui fperaret quis crederet effe futura?
Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella duces! quæ protulit arma! ‚'
Quæ canit, et quanta prælia dira tuba!
Cœleftes acies! atque in certamine cœlum !
Et quæ cæleftes pugna deceret agros !
Quantus in æthereis tollit fe Lucifer armis !
Atque ipfo graditur vix Michaele minor !
Quantis, et 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 fe 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, et vera tonitrua rauco
Admiftis flammis infonuere polo :

Excidit attonitis mens omnis, et impetus omnis,
Et caffis dextris irrita tela cadunt;

Ad pœnas fugiunt, et ceu foret Orcus afylum,
Infernis certant condere fe tenebris.
Cedite Romani fcriptores, cedite Graif,
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantum ceciniffe putabit
Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.

SAMUEL BARROW, M. D,

G 3

W

On PARADISE LOST.

Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In flender book his vaft defign unfold;
Meffiah 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 saw him strong)
The facred truths to fable and old fong,
(So Samfon grop'd the temple's posts in spite)
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 eafy he fhould render vain.

Or if a work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was that some 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 how it in a play.
Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor defpife
My caufelefs, yet not impious furmise.
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'st of in such state:
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horrour on us seize,
Thou fing'ft with fo 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 Paradife you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.

Where could't thou words of fuch a compafs find?
Whence furnish fuch a vaft expence of mind?
Just Heav'n 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 fense secure;

While

While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells,
And, like a pack-horse, 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 offend,

And while I meant to praife thee, muft commend,
Thy verfe created like thy theme fublime,

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

ANDREW MARVEL.

THE

The VERSE.

HE meafure 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 verfe, in longer works. especially, but the invention of a barbarous age, to fet off wretched matter and lame metre; graced indeed fince by the use of fome famous modern poets, carried away by custom; but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and conftraint, to exprefs many things otherwise, and, for the most part, worse than elfe they would have expreffed them. Not without cause, 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 confifts only in apt numbers, fit quantity of fyllables, and the fense variously drawn out from one verfe 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 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 esteemed an example fet, the first in English, of ancient liberty recovered to heroic poem, from the troublesome and modern bondage of rhyming.

PARADISE

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PARADISE LOST,

A POE M,

IN TWELVE BOOKS.

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