I have heard a very judicious critic fay, that he had an higher idea of Milton's stile in poetry, from the two following poems, than from his Paradife Loft. It is certain the imagination fhewn in them is correct and ftrong. The introduction to both in irregular measure is borrowed from the Italians, and hurts an English ear.
ENCE vain deluding joys,
The brood of folly without father bred, How little you befted,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys?
Dwell in fome idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes poffefs,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the fun-beams,
Or likeft hovering dreams,
The fickle penfioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddess, fage and holy,
Hail divineft Melancholy,
Whofe faintly vifage is too bright
To hit the fenfe of human fight,
And, therefore, to our weaker view,
O'er-laid with black, ftaid wisdom's hue;
Black, but fuch as in esteem
Prince Memnon's fifter might befeem,
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove
To fet her beauties praise above
The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far defcended,
Thee bright-hair'd Vefta long of yore
To folitary Saturn bore;
His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a ftain)
Oft, in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come penfive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, ftedfaft, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable ftole of Cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent fhoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wanted ftate,
With even step and mufing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy paffion still,
Forget thyfelf to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward caft
Thou fix them on the earth as faft:
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Ay round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to thefe retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ;
But first, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute filence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her fweeteft, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;
Sweet bird, that shunn'ft the noise of folly,
Moft musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-fong;
And, miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head the bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfew found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar ;
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowfy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be feen in some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions, hold
The immortal mind, that hath forfook
Her manfion in this flefhly nook:
And of thofe demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under-ground,
Whofe power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy,
In fcepter'd pall, come fweeping by,
Prefenting Thebes, or Pelops line,
Or the Tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath thy buskin'd stage..
But, O fad Virgin, that thy pow'r
Might raise Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes, as, warbled to the ftring,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,
Thus, night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounet as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But, kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or, ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown its fill,
Ending on the ruftling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And, when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddefs, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
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