To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource,
To fee the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thoufand raptures, I furvey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in fong,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That deftitute of ftrength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful fource;
Yet fung so often in poetic lays,
With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys;
So high the deathlefs Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious ftream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely ftray'd,
And unobferv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's sword renown'd,
Its rifing billows through the world resound,
Where'er the Hero's godlike acts ean pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verfe.
Oh could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That fhun the coaft of Britain's stormy ifle,
Or, when transplanted and preferv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted fcents:
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds fend out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the seasons lavish all their pride :
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rife,
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the fkies,
And here the proud triumphal arches rife,
Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd,
Their bafe degenerate progeny upbraid :
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through airy channels flow.
Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,
And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chifel all its force has shown,
And foften'd into flefh the rugged stone.
In folemn filence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and Gods, and Roman confuls ftand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued,
Still fhow the charms that their proud hearts subdued.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And fhow th' immortal labours in my verfe,
Where from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light
A new creation rifes to my fight,
Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theine with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the foft variety I'm loft:
Here pleafing airs my ravish'd foul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found;
Here domes and temples rife in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.
How has kind heaven adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd bleffings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhaufted ftores,
Her blooming mountains, and her funny shores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The files of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange and the swelling grain :
Joylefs he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines :
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curft,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.
Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,
Profufe of blifs, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the fun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddefs, Thee, Britannia's ifle adores
How has fhe oft exhaufted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the fun refine
The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant foil,
And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil :
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads fhine:
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountai
Others with towering piles may please the fight,
And in their proud aspiring domes delight;
A nicer touch to the ftretcht canvas give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:
'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's prayer.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Blefs the wife conduct of her pious arms:
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies hufh'd in peace.
Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his afpiring head,
And fain her godlike fons would disunite
By foreign gold, or by domeftic fpite:
But ftrives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Naffau's arms defend and counfels guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found
The diftant climes and different tongues refound,
I bridle-in my struggling Muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song.
My humble verse demands a fofter theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for Heroes: whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise. MILTON'S
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