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How are you struck with terror and delight,
- For lofty sense, Creative fancy, and inspection keen Through the deep windings of the human heart, Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boast? Is not each great, each amiable Muse Of classic ages in thy Milton met? A genius universal as his theme; Astonishing as Chaos; as the bloom Of blowing Eden fair; as Heaven sublime !
* The Seasons—'Summer.'
GRAY.* Nor second he that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy; The secrets of the abyss to spy, He pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.
High on some cliff, to Heaven up-piled,
hear, On which that ancient trump he reach'd was
* Progress of Poesy. + Ode on the Poetical Character.
Thither oft his glory greeting,
Have now o’erturn’d the inspiring bowers,
Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise and say,
How, at thy gloomy close of day; How, when “depress’d by age, beset with wrongs; When 'fallen on evil days and evil tongues :'
When Darkness, brooding on thy sight,
Exiled the sovereign lamp of light;
Caught from the stores of ancient Truth:
Each scene, that Tiber's bank supplied ;
* Ode to Memory.
The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly; The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky;
Were still thine own: thy ample mind
Each charm received, retain'd, combined. And thence the nightly Visitant,' that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame,
Recall’d the long-lost beams of grace;
That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gor
Poet of other times ! to thee I bow
* Epistle on the English Poets.
Philosophy, baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches : piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna. * Table Talk.
+ The Task, Book 11.