to inquire at St. Giles's Church; where the Sexton fhew'd him a fmall Monument, which he faid was fuppos'd to be MILTON's; but the infcription had never been legible fince he was employ'd in that office, which he has poffefs'd about Forty Years. This, fure, cou'd never have happen'd in fo fhort a space of time, unless the Epitaph had been induftrioufly eras'd: and that fuppofition carries with it fo much inhumanity, that I think we ought to believe it was not erected to his IN Paradifum Amiffam Summi Poetæ JOANNIS MILTONI. Q UI legis Amiffam Paradifum, grandia Magni Res cuntas, & cunctarum primordia rerum, Et quodcunque ullis conclufum eft finibus ufquam ; 0 Coeleftes acies! atque in certamine cœlum! Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis, Ad pœnas fugiunt, & (ceu foret Orcus afylum ! ) Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii, Et quos Fama recens, vel celebravit anus: Hæc quicunque leget, tantùm cecinisse putabit Mæonidem Ranas, Virgilium Culices. ON PARADISE LOST. W HEN I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold, In flender book His vaft defign unfold: Meffiab 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 faw Him strong) The Sacred Truths to fable, and old fong; (So Sampfon grop'd the temple's posts in spight) The world o'erwhelming to revenge His fight. Yet as I read, foon growing less 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 easy, He should 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 excell) Might hence prefume, the whole creation's day Thou haft not mifs'd one thought that could be fit; So that no room is here for writers left, That majesty which through Thy Work doth reign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane : And Things Divine Thou treat'ft of in such state, At once delight and horror on us feife, Where could'st Thou words of fuch a compass find? Well might'ft thou fcorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of Thy own fense 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. |