OUR ftedfast 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 fhame,
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 furvey'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,

More wide the manna through the nation spread. Like fome 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 magick vice, by reason's aid.

Dr. DALTON'S Prologue to Comus, 1738.

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

Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at MILTON's

name,

Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,

Shames the mean penfions of Auguftan times;
Immortal patrons of fucceeding days,

Attend this prelude of perpetual praise !
Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or publick rage;
Let Study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this Theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, diftinguish'd by your smiles, shall
tell,

That never Britain can in vain excell;

The flighted arts futurity fhall trust,
And rifing 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 hafte each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his towering name :
He fees, and pitying fees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat buft behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.

Unknown,-unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threatening o'er her flow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring Mufe her morning dreams inspire;
Yet fofter claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestick life,
The patient fufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,
Her grandfire 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
wife, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown defert-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-daughter.

NOR fecond HE that rode fublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy;

The fecrets of the abyss to spy,

He pafs'd the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living throne, the fapphire blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He faw; but, blafted with excefs of light,
Clos'd his
eyes in endless night.

GRAY's Progress of Poesy.

Ode on the Poetical Character.

HIGH on fome cliff, to Heaven up-pil'd,
Of rude accefs, of profpect wild,
Where tangled round the jealous steep
Strange fhades o'erbrow the vallies deep,
And holy Genii guard the rock,
Its glooms embrown, its fprings unlock,
While on its rich ambitious head
An Eden, like HIS OWN, lies fpread;
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,
Nigh fpher'd in Heaven, its native ftrains
could hear,

On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung;

Thither oft his glory greeting,

From Waller's myrtle fhades retreating, With many a vow from Hope's afpiring tongue

My trembling feet his guiding steps purfue; In vain : -Such blifs to one alone Of all the fons of Soul was known; And Heaven and Fancy, kindred Powers, Have now o'erturn'd the inspiring bowers, Or curtain'd clofe fuch scene from every future COLLINS.

view.

Ode to Memory.

RISE, hallow'd MILTON! rife, and say,
How, at thy gloomy close of day;

deprefs'd by age, beset with

When "fall'n on evil days and evil tongues
When Darkness, brooding on thy fight,
Exil'd the fov'reign lamp of light:

Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse?
What friends were thine, fave Memory and the
Mufe?

Hence the rich spoils, thy ftudious youth Caught from the ftores of ancient Truth : Hence all thy bufy eye could pleas'd explore, When Rapture led thee to the Latian shore Each scene, that Tiber's bank supplied; Each grace, that play'd on Arno's fide; The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly; The blue ferene, that spreads Hefperia's sky ; Were ftill thine own: Thy ample mind Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd. And thence the nightly Vifitant," that came To touch thy bofom with her facred flame, Recall'd the long-loft beams of grace; That whilom fhot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's

gorgcous veft.

VOL. I.

MASON.

C