To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource,
To fee the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thoufand raptures, I furvey
Eridanus through flowery meadows ftray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Mufe's skill,
And in the smooth defcription murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That destitute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet fung fo often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathlefs Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely stray'd,
And unobferv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's fword renown'd,
Its rifing billows through the world refound,
Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
Oh could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That fhun the coaft of Britain's stormy ifle,
Or, when tranfplanted and preferv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents :
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feasons lavish all their pride:
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand paffions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies,
And here the proud triumphal arches rife,
Where the old Romans deathlefs acts display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid :
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through airy channels flow,
Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,
And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires;
Where the fmooth chifel all its force has fhown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In folemn filence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and Gods, and Roman confuls ftand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued,
Still fhow the charms that their proud hearts fubdued.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And fhow th' immortal labours in my verfe,
Where from the mingled strength of fhade and light
A new creation rifes to my fight,
Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the foft variety I'm loft:
Here pleasing airs my ravish'd foul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.
How has kind heaven adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The fmiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppreffion in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange and the swelling grain :
Joyless he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines :
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.
Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,
Profufe of blifs, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ;
Eas'd of her load subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the fun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddefs, Thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has fhe oft exhaufted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the fun refine
The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil :
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine :
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains
Others with towering piles may please the fight,
And in their proud afpiring domes delight;
A nicer touch to the ftretcht canvas give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:
'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's prayer.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Blefs the wife conduct of her pious arms:
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies hufh'd in peace.
Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his afpiring head,
And fain her godlike fons would difunite
By foreign gold, or by domeftic fpite:
But strives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Naffau's arms defend and counfels guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found
The diftant climes and different tongues refound,
I bridle-in my struggling Muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more adventurous fong.
My humble verfe demands a fofter theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for Heroes: whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, fhould praise. MILTON'S
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