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IN PARADISUM AMISSAM
Qui legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni
Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cuucta legis?
Et fata, et fines continet iste liber.
Scribitur et toto quicquid in orbe latet: Terneque, tractusque maris, coelumque profundum,
Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque specus: Quaeque colunt terras, pontumque, et Tartara caeca,
Quaeque colunt summi lucida regna poli:
Et sine fine Chaos, et sine fine Deus:
In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
Et tamen haec hodie terra Britanna legit.
Quae canit, et quanta praelia dira tuba!
Et quae coelestes pugna deceret agros! Quantus in aethereis tollit se Lucifer armis!
Atque ipso graditur vix Michaele minor! Quantis, et quam funestis concurritur iris,
Dum ferus hie 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 pugnae non superesse suae.
Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
Admistis flammis insonuere polo:
Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt;
Infernis certant nondere se tenebris.
Et quos fama reeens vel celebravit anus. Haec quicjnque leget tantum cecinisse putabit
Masonidem ranas, Vu'gilium culiee9.
Samcel Barrow, M.D. ON PARADISE LOST.
When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crowned, God's reconciled deciee,
Bebelling angels, the forbidden tree,
Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument
Held me a while, misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song
(So Samson groped the temple's posts in spite),
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.
Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
Or if a work so infinite he spanned,
Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state As them preserves, and thee inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; And above human flight dost soar aloft With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft The hird named from that Paradise you sing So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind? Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, Rewards with prophecy thy los3 of sight.
Well might'st 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; Their fancies like our bushy points appear, The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I, too, transported by the mode, commend, And while I mean to praise thee must offend. Thy verse, created like thy theme sublime, In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.
Andrew Marvel. A POEM, IN TWELVE BOOKS.