ON PARADISE LOST
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��in one of his prophetical books, says that Milton's house in the Spiritual Kingdom is Palladian, not Gothic. Palladian it is, and in this century we have dwelt by preference in the Gothic house of mind, loving the
��wayward humor of its adornment, the mys- ticism and confusion of its design. But from time to time we must purify our vision with the more ample and august lines of the house which Milton has builded.
��ON PARADISE LOST [PREFIXED TO THE SECOND EDITION]
WHEN I beheld 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 ar- gument
Held me a while 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 perplexed the things he would ex- plain, And what was easy he should render
vain.
Or, if a work so infinite he spanned, Jealous I was that some less skilful hand (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 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. The 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 flight dost soar aloft With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. The bird named from the Paradise you sing So never flags, but always keeps on wing. Where could'st thou words of such a
compass find ? Whence furnish such a vast expense of
mind ?
Just Heaven, thee like Tiresias to requite, Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. Well might'st thou scorn thy readers to
allure
With tinkling rime, of thy own sense se- cure; 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 rime.
ANDREW MARVELL.
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