And that by mute astonishment alone,

Not by the falt'ring tongue, thy worth may best be

shown.

TO MR. JOHN MILTON

OF LONDON,

A Youth eminent from his Country and his Virtues.

WHO in his travels has made himself acquainted with many nations, and in his studies, with all; that, like another Ulysses, he might learn all that all could teach him;

Skilful in many tongues, on whose lips languages now mute so live again, that the idioms of all are insufficient to his praise; happy acquisition by which he understands the universal admiration, and applause, his talents have excited;

Whose endowments of mind, and person, move us to wonder, but at the same time fix us immoveable; whose works prompt us to extol him, but by their beauty strike us mute;

In whose memory the whole world is treasured; in whose intellect, wisdom; in whose heart, the ardent desire of glory; and in whose mouth, eloquence. Who with Astronomy for his conductor,

hears the music of the spheres; with Philosophy for his teacher, decyphers the hand writing of God, in those wonders of creation, which proclaim his greatness; and with the most unwearied literary Industry for his associate,

Examines, restores, penetrates with ease the obscurities of antiquity, the desolations of ages, and the labyrinths of learning;

"But wherefore toil to reach these arduous heights?"

To him, in short, whose virtues the mouths of Fame are too few to celebrate, and whom astonishment forbids us to praise as he deserves, this tribute due to his merits, and the offspring of reverence and affection, is paid by

CARLO DATI,

A PATRICIAN FLORENTINE.

This great man's servant, and this good man's

friend.*

These complimentary pieces have been sufficiently censured by a great authority, but no very candid judge either of Milton or his panegyrists. He, however, must have a heart sadly indifferent to the glory of his country, who is not gratified by the thought that she may exult in a son, whom young as he was, the Learned of Italy thus contended to honour.

ELEGIES.

ELEGY I.

TO CHARLES DEODATI.

Ar length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, Charged with thy kindness, to their destin'd home, They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, ` Must seek again so soon his wonted home. I well content, where Thames with refluent tide My native city laves, meantime reside, Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impell To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.

Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats disdain,
And fly from wrongs, my soul will ne'er sustain.
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent,
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I chuse.
I would, that, exiled to the Pontic shore,
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more.
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays,

And Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise;
For here I woo the muse; with no controul,
And here my books-my life-absorb me whole.
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep,
The winding theatre's majestic sweep;
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,

Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws.
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
And, artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
What love is, know not, yet, unknowing, love.
Or, if impassion'd Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,

}

I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief,
At times, e'en bitter tears! yield sweet relief.
As when from bliss untasted torn away,
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day,
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,
Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe.
When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.
Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,

I dwell; but, wherr spring calls me forth to roam,
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm, that never sun prevades.
Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire!
Oft have I gaz'd on gem-surpassing eyes,
Out-sparkling every star, that gilds the skies.
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!

Bright locks, Love's golden snare! these falling low,
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow!
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r
Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower!

Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th' embrace
Of Jupiter in antient times, give place !
Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!