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1. IN
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1.1. Paradisum Amissam Summi Poetæ
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1.1.1. JOHANNIS MILTONI
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0
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QUi legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni
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1
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Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cuncta legis?
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Res cunctas, & cunctarum primordia rerum,
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Et fata, & fines continet iste liber.
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Intima panduntur magni penetralia mundi,
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Scribitur & toto quicquid in Orbe latet.
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Terræque, tractusque maris, coelumque profundum
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Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque specus.
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Quæque colunt terras, Portumque & Tartara cæca,
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Quæque colunt summi lucida regna Poli.
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Et quodcunque ullis conclusum est finibus usquam,
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Et sine fine Chaos, & sine fine Deus:
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Et sine fine magis, si quid magis est sine fine,
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In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
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Hæc qui speraret quis crederet esse futurum?
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Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit.
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O quantos in bella Duces! quæ protulit arma!
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Quæ canit, & quanta prælia dira tuba.
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Coelestes acies! atque in certamine Coelum!
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Et quæ Coelestes pugna deceret agros!
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Quantus in ætheriis tollit se Lucifer armis!
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Atque ipso graditur vix Michaele minor!
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Quantis, & quam funestis concurritur iris
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Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit!
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Dum vulsos Montes ceu Tela reciproca torquent,
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Et non mortali desuper igne pluunt:
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Stat dubius cui se parti concedat Olympus,
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Et metuit pugnæ non superesse suæ.
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At simul in coelis Messiæ insignia fulgent,
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Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
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Horrendumque rotæ strident, & sæva rotarum
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Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
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Et flammæ vibrant, & vera tonitrua rauco
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Admistis flammis insonuere Polo:
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Excidit attonitis mens omnis, & impetus omnis
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Et cassis dextris irrita Tela cadunt.
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Ad poenas fugiunt, & ceu foret Orcus asylum
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Infernis certant condere se tenebris.
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38
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Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii
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Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
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Hæc quicunque leget tantum cecinesse putabit
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Mæonidem ranas, Virgilium culices.
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42
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S.B. M.D.
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2. ON
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2.1. Paradise Lost
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WHen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
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In slender Book his vast Design unfold,
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Messiah Crown'd, Gods Reconcil'd Decree,
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Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,
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Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
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Held me a while misdoubting his Intent,
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That he would ruine (for I saw him strong)
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The sacred Truths to Fable and old Song
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(So Sampson groap'd the Temples Posts in spight)
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The World o'rewhelming to revenge his sight.
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Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
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I lik'd his project, the success did fear;
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Through that wide Field how he his way should find
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O're which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
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Lest he perplex'd the things he would explain,
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And what was easie he should render vain.
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Or if a Work so infinite he spann'd
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Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
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(Such as disquiet always what is well,
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And by ill imitating would excell)
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Might hence presume the whole Creations day
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To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.
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Pardon me, Mighty Poet, nor despise
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My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
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But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
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Within thy labours to pretend a share.
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Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit,
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And all that was improper dost omit:
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So that no room is here for Writers left,
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But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.
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That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign
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Draws the devout, deterring the Profane.
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And things divine thou treatst of in such state
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As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
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At once delight and horrour on us seise,
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Thou singst with so much gravity and ease;
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And above humane flight dost soar aloft
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With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.
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The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you sing
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So never flaggs, but always keeps on Wing.
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Where couldst thou words of such a compass find?
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Whence furnish such a vast expence of mind?
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Just Heav'n thee like Tiresias to requite
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Rewards with Prophesie thy loss of sight.
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44
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Well mightst thou scorn thy Readers to allure
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With tinkling Rhime, of thy own sense secure;
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While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells,
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And like a Pack-horse tires without his Bells:
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Their Fancies like our Bushy-points appear,
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The poets tag them, we for fashion wear.
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I too transported by the Mode offend,
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And while I meant to Praise thee must Commend.
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Thy Verse created like thy Theme sublime,
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In Number, Weight, and Measure, needs not Rhime.
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54
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A. M.
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3. THE VERSE
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