« 이전계속 »
in Spitalfields, where Addison and others saw her, and asked her questions about her father; and she died in 1727, after having had a large family, of whom only one son and one daughter survived. The son, who was named Caleb, went to the East Indies, and died at Madras in 1719, leaving children, whose issue cannot be traced. The daughter, whose name was Elizabeth, married a Thomas Foster of Spitalfields, who afterwards kept a small chandler's shop in Holloway, and was in very poor circumstances. Some money was collected for her in 1750 by Dr. Birch, Johnson, and others; and she died at Islington in 1754, having had seven children, none of whom survived, or at least left descendants. Thus disappeared all the direct posterity of the poet. It remains to be added, that his brother Christopher, having adhered steadily to his royalist politics, was knighted by James II. in 1686, and became one of that king's servile judges, but was set aside at the Revolution, and died at Ipswich in 1692; that the two Philipses, the poet's nephews, had some reputation as hackwriters in the reigns of James and his successor; and, finally, that their mother, the poet's only sister, had other children by her second marriage, whose descendants are still to be traced.
IN PARADISUM AMISSAM SUMMI POETE JOHANNIS MILTONL
Qui legis Amissam Paradisum, grandia magni
Et sine fine magis, si quid magis est sine fine,
Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit.
Atque ipso graditur vix Michaele minor!
Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit!
Et metuit pugnæ non superesse suæ.
Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
Ad poenas fugiunt, et ceu foret Orcus asylum
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
SAMUEL BARROW, M. D.
ON PARADISE LOST.
WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
And all that was improper dost omit:
That majesty which through thy work doth reign Draws the devout, deterring the profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease, And above human flight dost soar aloft With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. The bird nam'd from that paradise you sing So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where could'st thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind? Just heaven thee like Tiresias to requite Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.
Well might'st thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; While the town-bays writes all the while and spells, And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: Their fancies like our bushy points appear, The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I too, transported by the mode, offend, And while I meant to praise thee must commend. Thy verse created like thy theme sublime, In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.