In Paradifum amiffam* fummi poetæ Johannis Miltoni.

UI legis Amiffam Paradifum, 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, cœlumque profundum
Sulphureumque Erebi flammivomumque fpecus;
Quæque colunt terras, portumque 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 est sine fine,
In Chrifto erga homines conciliatus amor.
Hæc qui fperaret quis crederet effe futurum?
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 cœleftes pugna deceret agros!
Quantus in ætheriis 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.

* Published with the fecond edition of Paradife Loft, in 1674.

b

Ad pœnas fugiunt, et ceu foret Orcus asylum
Infernis certant condere fe tenebris.

Cedite Romani fcriptores, cedite Graii

Et

quos fama recens vel celebravit anus. Hæc quicunque leget tantum ceciniffe putabit Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.

SAMUEL BARROW, M. D.

ON PARADISE LOST.

HEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,

WE 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 awhile mifdoubting his intent,
That he would ruine (for I faw him ftrong)
The facred truths to Fable and old fong
(So Sampfon 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 should 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 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 show it in a play.
Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise

My causeless, yet not impious, furmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a fhare.

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'ft of in such state
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us feize,
Thou fing'ft with so much gravity and ease,
And above human flight dost foar aloft
With plume so strong, fo equal, and fo foft.
The bird nam'd from that paradife you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.

Where could'ft thou words of fuch a compafs find?
Whence furnish fuch a vaft expanfe of mind?
Juft heav'n thee like Tirefias to requite
Rewards with prophecy thy lofs of fight.

Well mightest thou fcorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of thy own fense 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 verfe created like thy theme fublime,

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

ANDREW MARVEL.

See note in Life, p. cvii.