No More Learning

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104 THE rOKMS



ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

When IH)eheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crowned, God*s reconciled decree,
Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree,
Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all ; the argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song ;
So Samson groped the temple's posts in spite.
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I liked his project, the success did fear ;
Through that wide field how he his way should

find,
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind ;
Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain.
And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite he spanned,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand



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OF MARVELL. 105

(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinced, and none will dare
Within thy labours to pretend a share.
Thou hast not missed one thought that could

befit,
And all that was improper dost omit ;
So that no room is here for writers lefl,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.

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 fiight dost soar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft :
The bird named from that paradise you sing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.
Where couldst thou words of such a compass find ?
Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind ?
Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.
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106 THE POEMS

Well might thou scorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure.
While the Town-Bay es writes all the while «nd

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.



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OP MARVELL. 107



AN EPITAPH.

Enough ; and leave the rest to fame ;
Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship, which, living, she declined,
When dead, to offer were unkind.
Where never any could speak ill,
Who would officious praises spill ?
Nor can the truest wit, or friend,
Without deti'acting, her commend ;
To say, she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced,
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud ;
That her soul was on heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay.
She summed her life up every day ;
Modest as moim, as mid-day bright.
Gentle as evening, cool as night ;
*Tis true ; but all too weakly said :
*Twas more significant, she's dead.



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108 THE POEMS



TRANSLATED FROM SENECA'S TRAGEDY
OF THYESTES.

CHORUS II.

Climb, at court, for me, that wiU,

Tottering favour's pinnacle ;

All I seek is to lie still :

Settled in some secret nest,

In calm leisure .