he retired to Chalfont in Buckinghamshire on account of the plague; and to have been seen inscribed on the glass of a window in that place. I have seen a copy of it written, apparently in a coeval hand, at the end of Tonson's edition of Milton's Smaller Foems in 1713, where it is also said to be Milton's. It is re-printed from Dr. Birch's Life of the poet, in Fawkes and Woty's Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. viii. p. 67. But, in this sonnet, there is a scriptural mistake; which, as Mr. Warton has observed, Milton was not likely to commit. For the Sonnet improperly represents David as punished by pestilence for his adultery with Bathsheba. Mr. Warton, however, adds, that Dr. Birch had been informed by Vertue the engraver, that he had seen a satirical medal, struck upon Charles the Second, abroad, without any legend, having a correspondent device.-This sonnet, I should add, varies from the construction of the legitimate sonnet, in consisting of only ten lines, instead of fourteen.

Fair mirrour of foul times! whose fragile sheen,
Shall, as it blazeth, break; while Providence,
Aye watching o'er his saints with eye unseen,
Spreads the red rod of angry pestilence,
To sweep the wicked and their counsels hence;
Yea, all to break the pride of lustful kings,
Who Heaven's lore reject for brutish sense;
As erst he scourg'd Jessides' sin of yore,
For the fair Hittite, when, on seraph's wings,
He sent him war, or plague, or famine sore.

II.

In the concluding note on the seventh Sonnet,

it has been observed that other Italian sonnets and compositions of Milton, said to be remaining in manuscript at Florence, had been sought for in vain by Mr. Hollis. I think it may not be improper here to observe, that there is a tradition of Milton having fallen in love with a young lady, when he was at Florence; and, as she understood no English, of having written some verses to her in Italian, of which the poem, subjoined to this remark, is said to be the sense. It has often been printed; as in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1760, p. 148; in Fawkes and Woty's Poetical Calendar, 1763, vol. viii. p. 68; in the Annual Register for 1772, p. 219; and in the third volume of Milton's poems in the Edition of the Poets, 1779. But to the original no reference is given, and even of the translator no mention is made, in any of those volumes. The poem is entitled, A fragment of Milton, from

the Italian.

When, in your language, Iunskill'd address

The short-pac'd efforts of a trammell'd Muse; Soft Italy's fair critics round me press,

And my mistaking passion thus accuse.

"Why, to our tongue's disgrace, does thy dumb love

Strive, in rough sou d, soft meaning to impart? He must select his words who speaks to move,

And point his purpose at the hearer's heart."

CHRIST'S NATIVITY '.
THIS is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, [table
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal
clay.

Afford a present to the Infant-God?
Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein

Hast thou no verse, no hyinn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the Heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squa-
drons bright?

See, how from far, upon the eastern road,
The star-led wisards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy bumble cde,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel-quire, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN.

No war, or battle's sound,

Was heard the world around:

At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,

That with long beams the shamefac'd night The helmed Cherubim,

The hooked chariot stood

Unstain'd with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;

And kings sat still with aweful eye,

[array'd; [play'd,

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings disHarping in loud and solemn quire,

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

But peaceful was the night,

Wherein the Prince of light

His reign of peace upon the Earth began: The winds, with wonder whist,

Smoothly the waters kist,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed

wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fix'd in stedfast gaze,

Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight,

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

Before was never made,

But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great

His constellations set,

And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep,

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres,

Once bless our human ears,

If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time;

And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow;

And, with your ninefold harmony,

Make up full consort to the angelic symphoy.

go.

And, though the sharly gloom

Had given day her room,

The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

As his inferior flame

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need:

He saw a greater Sun appear

Enwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity

Will sicken soon and die,

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away,

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering

day.

The babe yet lies in smiling infancy,

That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss;

So both himself and us to glorify:

Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,

His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue: The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

through the deep;

With such a horrid elang

Shall from the surface to the centre shake;

When, at the world's last session,

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest ;

Nought but profoundest Hell can be bis shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark

throne.

Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

He, sovran priest, stooping his regal head,
That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Foor fleshy tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies:
O, what a mask was there, what a disguise:

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethrens' side.

These latest scenes confine my roving verse;
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound:

His god-like acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings, other where are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound;
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief;
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heaven and Earth are colour'd with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white.

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood;
My spirit some transporting cherub feels,
To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless
blood;

There doth my soul in holy vision sit, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
That was the casket of Heaven's richest store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;

For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.
Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild;
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think the infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This subject the author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and notlang satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished.

UPON THE

CIRCUMCISION.

YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, That erst with music, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along

So, mounting up in icy-pearled car,

Through middle empire of the freezing air
He wander'd long, till thee he spied from far;
There ended was his quest, there ceas'd his care:
Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,

But, all unwares, with his cold kind embrace Unhous'd thy virgin soul from her fair hiding place.

Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,
Whilom did slay his dearly-loved mate,
Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas' strand,
Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land;

But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power!

'Written in 1625, and first inserted in edi. tion 1673. He was now seventeen. WARTON.

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,
Or that thy corse corrupts in Earth's dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb;
Could Heaven for pity thee so strictly doom?
Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that show'd thou wast divine.

Resolve me then, oh soul most surely blest,
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear ;)
Tell me, bright spirit, where'er thou hoverest,
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in the Elysian Fields, (if such were there ;)
Oh say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy
flight?

Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof
Of shak'd Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which careful Jove in Nature's true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall [fled,
Of sheeny Heaven, and thou, some goddess
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head?
Or wert thou that just maid, who once before
Forsook the hated Earth, O tell me sooth,
And cam'st again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou that sweet-smiling youth?
Or that crown'd matrons,age white-robed Truth?
Or any other of that heavenly brood

Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good?

Or wert thou of the golden winged host,
Who, having clad thyself in human weed,
To Earth from thy prefixed seat didst post,
And after short abode fly back with speed,
As if to show what creatures Heaven doth breed;
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire

To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire?

But oh! why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy heaven-lov'd innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe,
To turn swift-rushing black Perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering Pestilence,

To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart? But thou canst best perform that office where

thou art.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all thy gréedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;

And joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne

Of him, to whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthy grossness quit,
Attir'd with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,
O Time.

AT A

SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce;
And to our high-rais'd phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee ;
Where the bright Seraphim, in burning row, 10
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly :

That we on Earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd Sin
Jarı'd against Nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood [sway'd
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O, may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God e. long
To his celestial consort us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!

AN

EPITAPH

ON THE

MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER ›.
THIS rich marble doth inter

The honour'd wife of Winchester,
A viscount's daughter, an earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair

'She was the wife of John marquis of Winchester, a conspicuous loyalist in the reign of king Charles the first, whose magnificent house or castle of Basing in Hampshire withstood an obstinate siege of two years against the rebels, and when taken was levelled to the ground, be. cause in every window was flourished. Aymez Loya ute.