AGES elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard : To carry Nature lengths unknown before, To give a MILTON birth, ask'd ages more. Thus Genius rose and set at order'd times, And shot a day-spring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He funk in Greece, in Italy he rose; And, tedious years of Gothick darkness pass'd, Emerg'd all splendour in our ifle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again. COWPER'S Table Talk.

From the fame Author's Task, B. iii.

Philofophy, baptiz'd

In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all the fees
As meant to indicate a God to man,
Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.
Learning has borne such fruit in other days
On all her branches : Piety has found
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews.
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage !
Sagacious reader of the works of God,
And in his word sagacious. Such too thine,
MILTON, whose genius had angelick wings,
And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom
Our British Themis gloried with just cause,
Immortal Hale! for deep difcernment prais'd,
And found integrity, not more than fam'd
For fanctity of manners undefil'd.

AND THOU, with age oppress'd, befet with wrongs,

And " fall'n on evil days and evil tongues, " In darkness and with dangers compass'd

What stars of joy thy night of anguish crown'd?
What breath of vernal airs, or found of rill,
Or haunt by Siloa's brook, or Sion's hill,
Or light of Cherubim, the empyreal throne,
The effulgent car, and inexpressive One ?
Alas, not thine the foretaste of thy praise;
A dull oblivion wrapt thy mighty lays.
A while thy glory funk, in dread repose;
Then, with fresh vigour, like a giant rose,

And strode sublime, and pass'd, with generous

rage,

The feeble minions of a puny age.

From the Poetical Works of William
Prefton, Efq. Dublin, 1793.

SEE! where the BRITISH HOMER leads
The Epick choir of modern days;
Blind as the Grecian bard, he speeds
To realms unknown to Pagan lays:
He sings no mortal war :-his strains
Describe no hero's amorous pains;

He chaunts the birth-day of the world,
The conflict of Angelick Powers,
The joys of Eden's peaceful bowers,

When fled the Infernal Host, to thundering Chaos

hurl'd.

Yet, as this deathless fong he breath'd,
He bath'd it with Affliction's tear;
And to Pofterity bequeath'd

The cherish'd hope to Nature dear,
No grateful praise his labours cheer'd,
No beam beneficent appear'd

To penetrate the chilling gloom ;Ah! what avails that Britain now With sculptur'd laurel decks his brow, And hangs the votive verse on his unconfcious

tomb!

From Poems and Plays by Mrs.
West, 1799.

MR. ADDISON'S CRITICISM

ON THE

PARADISE LOST,

Cedite, Romani fcriptores; cedite, Graii.

Propert. El. 34. lib. 2. ver. 65.

THERE is nothing in nature more irksome than general discourses, especially when they turn chiefly upon words. For this reason I shall wave the discussion of that point which was started fome years since, Whether Milton's Paradife Loft may be called an heroick poem? Thofe, who will not give it that title, may call it (if they please) a divine poem. It will be sufficient to its perfection, if it has in it all the beauties of the highest kind of poetry; and as for those who allege it is not an heroick poem, they advance no more to the diminution of it, than if they should say Adam is not Æneas, or Eve Helen.

I shall therefore examine it by the rules of epick poetry, and see whether it falls short of the Iliad or Æneid, in the beauties which are effen