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passion on trivial provocations: that his children, with the exception of the youngest, would occasionally sell his books to the dunghill women, as the witness calls them. That these daughters were capable of combining with the maid-servant, and of advising her to cheat her master, and their father, in her marketings; and that one of them, Mary, on being told that her father was married, replied, " that was no news; but if she could hear of his death, that would be something."

Of the three daughters of Milton, Anne, the eldest, married a master-builder, and died with her first child in her lying-in. Mary, the second, died in a single state; and Deborah, the youngest, married Abraham Clarke, a weaver in Spitalfields. She had seven sons and three daughters; but of these she left, at her decease, only Caleb, who, marrying in the East Indies, had two sons, whose history cannot be traced; and Elizabeth, who married Thomas Foster, of the same business with her father, and had by him three sons and four daughters, who all died young and without issue. Mrs. Foster died in poverty and distress, on the 9th of May, 1754. This was the lady for whose benefit "Comus" was played in 1750, and she had so little acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what was intended when a benefit was offered her. The profits of the night were only 1307.; yet this, as Dr. Johnson remarks, was the greatest benefaction that "Paradise Lost" ever procured the author's descendants.

Milton was in youth so eminently beautiful that he was called the lady of his college. His hair, which

was of a light brown, parted at the foretop, and hung down upon his shoulders, according to the picture which he has given of Adam. He was rather below the middle size, but vigorous and active, fond of manly sports, and even skilful in the exercise of the sword. His domestic habits, as far as they are known, were those of a severe student. He was remarkably temperate both in eating and drinking. In his youth, as we have noticed, he studied late at night; but afterwards changed his hours, and became a very early riser. The course of his day was best known after he lost his sight. When he first rose, he heard a chapter in the Hebrew Bible, and then studied till twelve; then took some exercise for an hour; then dined, then played on the organ, and sung or heard another sing; studied to the hour of six, and entertained his visitors till eight; then supped, and after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water went to bed. To his personal character there seems to have been little to object. He was unfortunate in his family, but no part of the blame rested with him. His temper, conduct, morals, benevolence, were all such as ought to have procured him respect. His religion has been a fertile subject of contest among his biographers. He is said to have been in early life a Calvinist, and when he began to hate the Presbyterians, to have leaned towards Arminianism. Whatever were his opinions, no sect could boast of his countenance; for after leaving the Church he never joined in public worship with any of them.

IN PARADISUM AMISSAM* SUMMI POETÆ

JOHANNIS MILTONI.

BUI legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni
Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cuncta legis ?
Res cunctas, et cunctarum primordia rerum,
Et fata, et fines continet iste liber.

Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi;
Scribitur et toto quicquid in orbe latet;
Terræque, tractusque maris, cœlumque profundum
Sulphureumque Erebi flammivomumque specus;
Quæque colunt terras, portumque et Tartara cæca,
Quæque colunt summi lucida regna poli;
Et quodcunque ullis conclusum est finibus usquam,
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 hodie terra Britanna legit.
O quantos in bella duces! quæ protulit arma!
Quæ canit, et quanta, prælia dira tuba.
Coelestes acies! atque in certamine cœlum !

Et quæ cœlestes pugna deceret agros!

Quantus in ætheriis tollit se Lucifer armis,
Atque ipso graditur vix Michaele minor!
Quantis, et quam funestis concurritur iris

Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit!
Dum vulsos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent,
Et non mortali desuper igne pluunt:

Published with the second edition of Paradise Lost, in 1674.

Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus,
Et metuit pugnæ non superesse suæ,
At simul in cœlis Messiæ insignia fulgent,
Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
Horrendumque rotæ strident, et sæva rotarum
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
Et flammæ vibrant, et vera tonitrua rauco
Admistis flammis insonuere Polo,

Excidit attonitis mens omnis, et impetus omnis
Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt.
Ad poenas fugiunt, et ceu foret Orcus asylum
Infernis certant condere se tenebris.

Cedite Romani scriptores, cedite Graii
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantum cecinisse putabit
Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium eulices.

SAMUEL BARROW, M.D.

ON PARADISE LOST.

HEN 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,

Heav'n, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruine (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to Fable and old song
(So Sampson grop'd the temple's posts in spite)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.
Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,

I lik'd his project, the success did fear;
Through that wide field how he his way should find
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind;
Lest he perplex'd 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 excel)

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.

And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.

At once delight and horror 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 could'st thou words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind?
Just heav'n thee like Tiresias to requite

Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.

Well mightest thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure ; While the town-bayes 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.
ANDREW MARVELL.

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