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Address to Great Britain.
For lofty sense, Creative fancy, and inspection keen Through the deep windings of the human heart, Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boast? Is not each great, each amiable, Muse Of classick ages in thy Milton met? A genius, universal as his theme; Astonishing as Chaos; as the bloom Of blowing Eden fair ; as Heaven sublime !
Ode to the Muse.
SAY, Goddess, can the festal board,
The foul of Milton shall I gain,
O powerful strain! O sacred foul !
OUR stedfast hard, to his own genius true, Still bade his Mule, “ fit audience find, though few." Scorning the judgement of a triting age, To choicer spirits he bequeath'd his page. He too was scornd; and, to Britannia's shame, She scarce for half an age knew Milton's name. But now, his fame by every trumpet blown, We on his deathless trophies raise our own. Nor art nor nature did his genius bound; Fleaven, llell, Earth, Chaos, he survey'd around; All things his eye, through wit's bright empire thrown, Beheld; and made, what it beheld, his own. Such Multox was : 'Tis ours to bring him forth; And yours to vindicate neglected worth. Such heaven-taught nunibersthould be more than read, More wide the manna through the nation spread. Like some blets d spirit he to-night descends, Mankind he visits, and their steps befriends; Through mazy errour's dark perplexing wood, Points out the path of truc and real good; Warns erring youth, and guards the fpotless maid Erom spell of magick vice, by reason'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 Augustan times; Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise ! Let Wit, condemn’d the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or publick rage;
Let Study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Dr. Johnson's Prologue to the Matk of Comus,
acted at Drury-Lane Theatre, April 5, 1750, for the Benefit of Milton's grand-daughter.
NOR second HE that rode sublime
Gray's Progress of Poesy.
Ode on the Poetical Character.
HIGH on some cliff, to Heaven up-pild,
And Heaven and Fancy, kindred Powers,
Have now o'erturn'd the inspiring bowers, Or curtain'd close such scene from every future view,
Ode to Memory.
How, at thy gloomy close of day;
When Darkness, brooding on thy light,
Exild the sov'reign lamp of light: Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse? What friends were thine, save Memory and the Muse?
Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth
Caught from the stores of ancient Truth : Hence all thy busy eye could pleas'd explore, When Rapture led thee to the Latian shore;
Each scene, that Tiber's bank supplied ;
Each grace, that play'd on Arno's fide;
Were still thine own: Thy ample mind
Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd. And thence “ the nightly Visitant,” that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame,
Recall'd the long-loft beams of grace;
That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gorgeous vest.