A race of triflers; who can relish nought
But the gay iffue of an idle brain:
How couldft thou hope to please this tinsel race?—
Though blind, yet, with the penetrating eye
Of intellectual light, thou doft furvey
The labyrinth perplex'd of Heaven's decrees;
And with a quill, pluck'd from an Angel's wing,
Dipt in the fount that laves the eternal throne,
Trace the dark paths of Providence Divine,
"And justify the ways of God to Man."
Ver. 9. The expreffions, in this line, occur in one of Conftable's Sonnets. See vol. vi. p. 440 of this edition:
"The pen wherewith thou doft fo heauenly finge,
"Made of a quill pluckt from an Angells winge."
So, in Davies's Bien Venu, 1606.
"But poet's pens, pluckt from Archangels' wings." TODD.
* THREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The Firft in loftinefs of thought surpass'd;
The Next, in majesty; in both, the LAST.
The force of Nature could no farther go:
To make a third, she join'd the former two.
*This celebrated Epigram of Milton appears under the wellengraved head of the poet by R. White, prefixed to the folio edition of Paradife Loft in 1688. It has been thus published in many fucceeding editions of the fame poem. Dryden, I should add, is a fubfcriber to the edition of 1688. The obligations of Dryden to others, in refpect to the formation and turn of this epigram, are noticed in vol. vii. p. 162 of this edition. TODD.
From an Account of the greatest English Poets.
BUT MILTON next, with high and haughty ftalks, Unfetter'd, in majestick numbers, walks:
No vulgar hero can his Mufe engage,
Nor earth's wide fcene confine his hallow'd
See! fee! he upward fprings, and, towering high,
Spurns the dull province of mortality;
Shakes Heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And fets the Almighty Thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes I more than fee,
Whilft every verfe array'd in majesty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And feems above the critick's nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terrour and delight,
When Angel with Archangel copes in fight!
When great Meffiah's outfpread banner fhines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What found of brazen wheels, with thunder, fcare
And ftun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my fpirits and my blood retire,
To fee the Seraphs funk in clouds of fire:
But when, with eager fteps, from hence I rife,
And view the first gay scene of Paradife;
What tongue, what words of rapture, can exprefs
A vifion fo profufe of pleafantnefs!
Addrefs to Great Britain.
Creative fancy, and infpection keen
Through the deep windings of the human heart,
Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boaft?
Is not each great, each amiable, Mufe
Of claffick ages in thy MILTON met?
A genius, universal as his theme;
Aftonishing as Chaos; as the bloom
Of blowing Eden fair; as Heaven fublime!
SAY, Goddess, can the feftal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying, flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free poetick hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The foul of MILTON fhall I gain,
To win thee back with fome celeftial ftrain?
O powerful strain! O facred foul!
His numbers every fenfe controul
And now again my bofom burns;
The Mufe, the Mufe herself, returns!
OUR ftedfaft bard, to his own genius true,
Still bade his Muse, "fit audience find, though few.”
Scorning the judgement of a trifling age,
To choicer fpirits he bequeath'd his page.
He too was fcorn'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 deathlefs 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 fhould be more than read,
More wide the manna through the nation spread.
Like fome blefs'd spirit he to-night descends,
Mankind he vifits, 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 spotlefs maid:
From fpell of magick vice, by reafon's aid.-
Dr. DALTON'S Prologue to Comus, 1735.
YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at MILTON's name, Whofe generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes, Shames the mean pensions of Auguftan times; Immortal patrons of fucceeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise! Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage With clofe malevolence, or publick rage;
Let Study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this Theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell,
That never Britain can in vain excell;
The flighted arts futurity fhall truft,
And rifing ages haften to be juft.
At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of univerfal 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 fcorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust 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 Muse 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.
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