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Perceiuing Eve his flattering gloze digest

He prosecutes; and, jocund doth not rest,
Till he haue try'd foot, hand, and head, and all,
Vpon the breach of this new-batter'd wall.

"No, fair," (quoth he) "beleeue not that the care
God hath, mankinde from spoyling death to spare,
Makes him forbid you (on so strict condition)

his purest, fairest, rarest fruit's fruition:
A double fear, an envie, and a hate,
His iealous heart for euer cruciate;
Sith the suspected vertue of this tree

Shall soon disperse the cloud of idiocy,

Which dims your eyes; and, further, make you seem
(Excelling vs) even equall Geds to him.

O World's rare glory! reach thy happy hand,

Reach, reach, I say; why dost thou stop or stand?
Begin thy bliss, and do not fear the threat

Of an vncertain God-head, onely great

Though self-aw'd zeal: put on the glistering pall

Of immortality: do not forestall

(As envious stepdames) thy posteritie

The soverain honour of Divinitie."

SYLVESTER'S DU BARTAS, Edit. 1621. pp. 192, 193.

As Milton has been supposed to have been much obliged to other poets in de scribing the unsubdued spirit of Satan, especially where he says,

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven:

I am tempted to make an extract or two from Stafford's Niobe, a prose-work already mentioned 5, in which Satan speaks the following words; not dissimilar to passages in Fletcher and Crashaw, which have been cited, on the same subject.

"They say forsooth, that pride was the cause of my fall; and that I dwell where there is nothing but weeping, howling, and gnashing of teeth; of which that falsehood was the authour, I will make you plainelie perceiue. True it is, sir, that I (storming at the name of supremacie) sought to depose my Creatour; which the watchful, all-seeing eye of Prouidence finding, degraded me of my angelicall dignitie, dispossessed me of all pleasures; and the Seraphin and Cherubin, Throni, Dominationes, Virtutes, Potestates, Frincipatus, Arch-angeli, Angeli, and all the celestiall Hierarchyes, with a shout of applause sung my departure out of Heauen: my Alleluia was turned into an Ehu; and too soone I found, that I was corruptibilis ab alio, though not in alio; and that he, that gaue me my being, could againe take it from mee. Now for as much as I was once an angell of light, it was the will of Wisedome to confine me to darknes and to create mee prince thereof: that so I, who could not obey in Heauen, might commaund in Hell. And, belieue mee, sir, I had rather controule within my dark diocese, than to reinhabite cœlum empyrium, and there liue in subjection, vnder check." Edit. 1611, pp. 16-18 part the second. Stafford calls Satan the "grim visag'd Goblin," ibid. p. 85. And, in the first part of the book, he describes the devil as having "committed incest with his daughter, the World.” p. 3. He also attributes the gunpowder plot to the devil, "with his unhallowed senate of popes, the inuentors and fautours of this vnheard-of attempt in Hell." p. 149.

I have thus brought together opinions, delivered at different periods respecting the origin of Paradise Lost; and have humbly endeavoured to trace, in part, the reading of the great poet, subservient to his plan. More successful discoveries

See the note p. 336.

342

TODD'S ORIGIN OF PARADISE LOST.

will probably arise from the pursuits of those, who are devoted to patient and liberal investigation. Videlicet hoc illud est præcipuè studiorum genus, quod vigiliis augescat; ut cui subinde ceu fluminibus ex decursu, sic accedit ex lectione minutatim quo fiat uberius. To such persons may be recommended the masterly observations of him, who was once so far imposed upon as to believe Lauder an honest man, and Milton a plagiary: but who expressed, when " Douglas and Truth appeared, "" the strongest indignation against the envious impostor : for they are observations resulting from a wish not to depreciate, but zealously to praise, the Paradise Lost. "Among the inquiries, to which this ardour of criticism has naturally given occasion, none is more obscure in itself, or more worthy of rational curiosity, than a retrospect of the progress of this mighty genius in the construction of his work; a view of the fabric gradually rising, perhaps, from small beginnings, till its foundation rests in the center, and its turrets sparkle in the skies; to trace back the structure, through all its varieties, to the simplicity of its first plan; to find what was first projected, whence the scheme was taken, how it was improved, by what assistance it was executed, and from what stores the materials were collected; whether its founder dug them from the quarries of Nature, or demolished other buildings to embellish his own"." I may venture to add that, in such inquiries, patience will be invigorated rather than dispirited; and every new discovery will teach us more and more to admire the genius, the erudition, and the memory of the inimitable Milton.

6 Politian. Miscellaneorum Præf.

7 The Progress of Envy, an excellent poem occasioned by Lauder's attack on the character of Milton. See Lloyd's Poems, last line of Progress of Envy.

So bishop Douglas told the affectionate biographer of Dr. Johnson. See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Vol. I. p. 197, Edit. 1799.

9 See Boswell's Life of Johnson, Vol. I. p. 199.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

ON

MILTON.

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Et sine fine Chaos, et sine fine Deus; Et sine fine magis, si quid magis est sine fine, In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor. Hæc qui speraret quis crederet esse futurum ? Et tamen hæc hodiè terra Britanna legit. O quantos in bella duces! quæ protulit arma ! Quæ canit, et quantâ prælia dira tubâ!, Cœlestes acies! atque in certamine cœlum ! Et quæ cœlestes pugna deceret agros ! Quantus in æthereis tollit se Lucifer armis ! Atque ipso graditur vix Michaële minor ! Quantis, et quàm funestis concurritur iris,

Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit ! Dum vulsos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent,

1 This poem by Dr. Barrow, and the next by Milton's friend Andrew Marvel, have been usually published in the editions of Paradise Lost, since the edition of 1674, to which they are both prefixed. TODD.

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, armáque digna Deo,
Horrendúmque 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,
Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt;
Ad pœnas fugiunt; et, ceu foret Orcus asylum,
Infernis certant condere se tenebris,
Cedite, Romani scriptores; cedite, Graii;

Et quos fama recens vel celebravit annus.
Hæc quicunque leget tantùm cecinisse putabit
Mæonidem rauas, Virgilium culices.
SAMUEL BARROW, M.D

ON PARADISE LOST.

WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling 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 Sampson grop'd the temple's posts in spight)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

2 Of Dr. Samuel Barrow, the author of these verses, no account has been given by the editors of Milton. Toland only calls him a doctor of physic. Perhaps he was the physician to the army of general Monk. TODD.

Yet as I read, still growing less severe, I lik'd his project, the success did fear; Through that wild field how he his way should find,

How couldst thou hope to please this tinsel race?

Though blind, yet, with the penetrating eye
Of intellectual light, thou dost survey

O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding The labyrinth perplex'd of Heaven's decrees;

blind;

Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain,
And what was easy he should render vain.
Or if a work so infinite he spann'd,

Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And, by ill imitating, would excell)
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.

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.

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And, things divine thou treat'st of in such state Bur Milton next, with high and haughty stalks

As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horrour 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 bird, nam'd 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 loss 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, 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.

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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,
And sets the Almighty Thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilst every verse array'd in majesty,
Bold and sublime, my whole intention draws,
And seems above the critic's nicer laws.
How are you struck with terrour and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's outspread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What sound of brazen wheels, with thunder, scare
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire:
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scene of Paradise;
What tongue, that words of rapture, can express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness!

ADDISON.

ture that Francis Cradock,a member of the RotaClub to which Milton belonged, might be the author of them. See Wood's Ath. Ox. vol. ii. 531. TODD.

+ The expressions, in this line, occur in one of Constable's Sonnets.

The pen wherewith thow dost so heauenly singe Made of a quill pluckt from an angell's winge. So, in Davies's Bien Venu, 1606. But poet's pens pluckt from archangels' wings.

5 This celebrated epigram on Milton appears under the well-engraved head of the poet by R. White, prefixed to the folio edition of Paradise Lost in 1688. It has been thus published in many succeeding editions of the same poem. Dryden, I should add, is a subscriber to the edition of 1688. TODD.

ADDRESS TO GREAT BRITAIN.

-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!
THOMSON'S SUMMER.

ODE TO THE MUSE.

SAY, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying, flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall I gain,

To win thee back with some celestial strain?
O powerful strain! O sacred soul!
His numbers every sense control:
And now again my bosom burns;
The Muse, the Muse herself, returns!

AKENSIDE.

OUR stedfast bard, to his own genius true,
Still bade his Muse, "fit audience find, though
"few."

Scorning the judgement of a trifling age,
To choicer spirits he bequeath'd his page.
He too was scorn'd; and, to Britannia's shame,
She scarce for half an age knew Milton's name.
But now, his fame by every trumpet blown,
We on his deathless trophies raise our own.
Nor art nor nature did his genius bound;

Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, he survey'd around;
All things his eye, through wit's bright empire
thrown,

Beheld; and made, what it beheld, his own.
Such Milton was: 'tis ours to bring him forth;
And yours to vindicate neglected worth.
Such Heaven-taught numbers should be more
than read,

Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,

More wide the manna through the nation spread.
Like some bless'd spirit he to night descends.
Mankind he visits, and their steps befriends;
Through mazy errour's dark perplexing wood,
Points out the path of true and real good;
Warns erring youth, and guards the spotless

maid

From spell of magic vice, by reason's aid.—
DR. DALTON'S PROLOGUE TO COMUS, 1738.

Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise!
Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close Malevolence, or public Rage;
Let Study, worn with Virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall
tell,

YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame,

Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name,

That never Britain can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his towering name:
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.
Unknown,-unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threatening o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire;
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble Virtue's native charms,
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.
Dr. Johnson's Prologue to the Mask of Comus,

acted at Drury-Lane Theatre, April 5, 1750,
for the Benefit of Milton's Grand-daugh-

ter.

Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy;
NOR second he that rode sublime
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,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.

GRAY'S PROGRESS OF POESY.

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

HIGH on some cliff, to Heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude access, of prospect wild,
Where tangled round the jealous steep
Strange shades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head

An Eden, like his own, lies spread;

I view that oak the fancied glades among,
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,
From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew,

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