On Paradise Lost.

When I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,     In slender Book his vast Design unfold,     Messiah Crown'd, Gods Reconcil'd Decree,     Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,     Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument     Held me a while misdoubting his Intent,     That he would ruine (for I saw him strong)     The sacred Truths to Fable and old Song     (So Sampson groap'd the Temples Posts in spight)     The World o'rewhelming to revenge his sight.     Yet as I read soon growing less severe,     I lik'd his Project, the success did fear;     Through that wide Field how he his way should find     O're which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;     Lest he perplex'd the things he would explain,     And what was easie he should render vain.     Or if a Work so infinite he spann'd,     Jealous I was that some less skilful hand     (Such as disquiet always what is well,     And by ill imitating would excell)     Might hence presume the whole Creations 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 convinc'd, and none will dare     Within thy Labours to pretend a share,     Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit,     And all that was improper dost omit:     So that no room is here for Writers left,     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 treatst of in such state     As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.     At once delight and horrour on us seise,     Thou singst with so much gravity and ease;     And above humane flight dost soar aloft     With Plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.     The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you sing     So never flaggs, but always keeps on Wing.     Where couldst thou words of such a compass find?     Whence furnish such a vast expence of mind?     Just Heav'n thee like Tiresias to requite     Rewards with Prophesie thy loss of sight.     Well mightst thou scorn thy Readers to allure     With tinkling Rhime, of thy own sense secure;     While the Town-Bayes 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 Rhime.     A.M.