SELECTED ENCOMIASTIC LINES. BARROW.* Qui legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni Terræque, tractusque maris, cœlumque profundum, cus: Quæque colunt terras, pontumque 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 Paradisum Amissam Summi Poetæ Johannis Miltoni. Cœlestes acies! atque in certamine cœlum ! cœlestes pugna deceret agros! Et quæ Quantus in æthereis 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 : 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, Ad pœnas fugiunt; et, ceu foret Orcus asylum, ANDREW MARVELL.* WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, I liked his project, the success did fear; O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind; Might hence presume the whole Creation's day * Address to Milton on reading Paradise Lost. 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 : At once delight and horror on us seize, Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, And, like a pack-horse, tires without his bells: 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. DRYDEN.* THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, ADDISON.† BUT Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfetter'd, in majestic numbers, walks : No vulgar hero can his Muse engage, Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage. See! see! he upward springs, and, towering high, Spurns the dull province of mortality; Shakes Heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms, * Epigram on Milton. † From an Account of the Greatest English Poets. |