Yes;

there he liv'd, and there he sung,
When life and hope and love were young;
There, Grace and Genius at his side,
He won his half-disdainful bride;

Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosom'd high in tufted trees.
** * * *

*

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks, &c.

It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the day to hear all the rural sounds, and see all the objects mentioned in this description; but, by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, with the music of the mower and his scythe; we saw the ploughman intent upon his labour, and the milk-maid returning from her country employment.

"As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot, whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images; it is on the top of the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect an all sides: the distant mountains, that seemed to support the clouds, the villages and turrets, partly shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that surrounded them: the dark plains and meadows of a greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large; in short, the view of the streams and rivers, convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above-mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to the village.

"The poet's house was close to the church; the greatest part of it has been pulled down, and what remains belongs to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers in Milton's own

And there the lark, "in spite of sorrow,"
Still at his "window bade good morrow,
"Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
"Or the twisted eglantine."

O happy hill! thy summer vest
Lives in his richest colouring drest;
O happy hill! thou saw'st him blest.
Thou saw'st him blest, the greatest man
That ever trod life's grovelling span ;-

hand were found by the gentleman, who was last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current among the villagers: one of them shewed us a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber; and I was much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him by the title of The Poet.

"It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the Pensieroso. Most of the cottage windows are overgrown with sweetbriars, viues, and honey-suckles; and that Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good-morrow,

Thro' the sweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine;

for it is evident, that he meant a sort of honey-suckle by the eglantine; though that word is commonly used for the sweet-briar, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet.

"If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford in the summer, I shall be inclined to hire and repair to this venerable mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends in honour of Milton, the most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an honour will be less splendid, but more sincere and respectful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon.

"I have the honour, &c.

"W. JONES."

Lord Teignmouth's Edition of Sir William Jones's Works,

Vol. I. p. 118.

Shakespeare alone with him could try,
Undazzled and untir'd, the sky.

And thou didst view his blooming charm*,
That eagle plumed like the dove,
Whose very sleeping grace could warm
Th' Italian maiden's heart to love.
Thou saw'st him in his happier hour,
When life was love, and genius, power;
When at his touch th' awaken'd string
All joyous hail'd the laughing spring;
And, like the sun, his radiant eyes
Glanc'd on thy earthly Paradise.
Thou didst not see those eyes so bright
For ever quench'd in cheerless night;
Thou didst not hear his anguish'd lays
Of" evil tongues and evil days."
Thou saw'st but his gay youth, sweet spot!
Happiest for what thou sawest not!
And happy still!-Though in thy sod
No blade remain by Milton trod;

Though the sweet gale, that sweeps thy plain,
No touch of Milton's breath retain;

Yet here the bards of later days

Shall roam to view thee and to praise.
Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame,
A lone romantic votary came;

There is somewhere extant a wild romantic story of an Italian lady of high birth, who, in travelling through England, saw Milton, then very young, asleep upon a bank. Enamoured of his beauty, she wrote some verses expressive of her admiration, laid them upon his hand, and left him still sleeping. This incident is said to have occasioned his travels in Italy, where he hoped to meet his unknown fair-one; and to have been the first cause of his assiduous cultivation of Italian literature.

He too is gone, untimely gone!
But, lur'd by him, full many a one
Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage;
And Minstrel, Patriot, or Sage,
Who wept not o'er his Indian bier,
Shall mourn him with his Milton here.
For till our English tongue be dead,
From Freedom's breast till life be fled,
Till Poetry's quick pulse be still,
None shall forsake thee, Forest Hill.

XII.

Few are the scenes of power to chin
The rapt enthusiast's mind,
Like that where Milton's wondrous strain
Still seems to linger o'er the plain,
Or whisper in the wind:

Not pent within the crowded town

Where meanness sweeps away renown:
But fresh and innocent and fair,

As if the mighty master there

Still flung his witch-notes on the air!
Yet Taste and Fancy's visions gay
Life's fond Affections shun,
And fade at Feeling's light away,
Like stars before the sun.

The spirits of the honour'd dead

At Friendship's living touch are fled:

For here, beneath fair Sherburn's shade*,

My Zosia dwelt, my Polish maid!

*Sherburn Lodge, the seat of the late Countess Dowager of Macclesfield, under whose care Zosia Choynowska, the early and beloved friend of the Author, was placed for education.

My friend most tender and most true!
My friend, ere friendship's name we knew!
The partner of those blissful hours,

When the world seem'd one bank of flowers;
Life but a summer's cloudless morn;
And Love, a rose without a thorn.
Fleeting as that illusive day,

Was Friendship's joy, was Zosia's stay:
For when o'er her majestic form
Youth shed his mantling roses warm,
When Beauty saw her work matur'd,
And Grandeur aw'd whom Grace allur'd,
Th' imperious mandate harshly bore
The finish'd charmer from our shore;
Bore her from friendship, bliss, and love,
Envy, neglect, contempt to prove
From hearts who, frozen as their clime,
Would antedate the work of Time,
And nip her beauties in their prime.

O ever-lov'd! return again!

Return! and soon the blooming train

Of childish friends shall meet to share

Thy soft caress, my Polish fair!
Again shall view thy sparkling eye
And Empress-form admiringly;
Each emulously crowding round,
Each list'ning for one silver sound;
And thou to all, with Queen-like smile,
Wilt sweet attention show the while,
Of kindness full and courtesy ;-
Though one alone (O happiest she!)
Scarce from thy tongue shall greeting hear,
Or find thy love, but in thy tear.
The dews of Heav'n fall not so sweet
As Friendship's tears with joy replete!