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Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
He, most sublime of bards, whose lay divine
shine Upon the towers of his gigantic pile, Which neither storms nor Time's destruction fears,
* Written in 1802.
Eternal growth of an eternal root !
II. Not Milton's holy genius could secure In life his name from insult and from scorn, And taunts of indignation ; foul as fall Upon the vilest tribe of human kind! Nor yet untainted could his heart endure The calumnies his patience should have borne : For words revengeful started at his call, And blotted the effulgence of his mind. But, O, how frail the noblest soul of man! Not o’er aggressive blame the bard arose ; His monarch's deeds 'twas his with spleen to scan; And on his reign the gates of mercy close ! He had a hero's courage; but, too stern, He could not soft submission's dictates learn !
END OF VOL. I.