 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
ON THE RE-PRINTING MILTON'S PROSE WORKS WITH HIS POEMS.
WRITTEN IN HIS PARADISE LOST.
These sacred lines with wonder we peruse
And praise the flights of a seraphic Muse,
Till thy seditious prose provokes our rage,
And soils the beauties of thy brightest page.
Thus here we see transporting scenes arise,
Heaven's radiant host, and opening Paradise;
Then trembling view the dread abyss beneath,
Hell's horrid mansions, and the realms of Death.
And praise the flights of a seraphic Muse,
Till thy seditious prose provokes our rage,
And soils the beauties of thy brightest page.
Thus here we see transporting scenes arise,
Heaven's radiant host, and opening Paradise;
Then trembling view the dread abyss beneath,
Hell's horrid mansions, and the realms of Death.
Whilst here thy bold majestic numbers rise,
And range th' embattled legions of the skies,
With armies fill the azure plains of light,
And paint the lively terrours of the fight,
We own the poet worthy to rehearse
Heaven's lasting triumphs in immortal verse:
But when thy impious mercenary pen
Insults the best of princes, best of men,
Our admiration turns to just disdain,
And we revoke the fond applause again.
And range th' embattled legions of the skies,
With armies fill the azure plains of light,
And paint the lively terrours of the fight,
We own the poet worthy to rehearse
Heaven's lasting triumphs in immortal verse:
But when thy impious mercenary pen
Insults the best of princes, best of men,
Our admiration turns to just disdain,
And we revoke the fond applause again.
Like the fall'n angels in their happy state,
Thou shar'dst their nature, insolence, and fate:
To harps divine, immortal hymns they sung,
As sweet thy voice, as sweet thy lyre was strung.
As they did rebels to th' Almighty grow,
So thou prophan'st his image here below.
Apostate bard! may not thy guilty ghost,
Discover to its own eternal cost,
That as they Heaven, thou Paradise hast lost!
Thou shar'dst their nature, insolence, and fate:
To harps divine, immortal hymns they sung,
As sweet thy voice, as sweet thy lyre was strung.
As they did rebels to th' Almighty grow,
So thou prophan'st his image here below.
Apostate bard! may not thy guilty ghost,
Discover to its own eternal cost,
That as they Heaven, thou Paradise hast lost!
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |