Milton, I ever deem'd thy soaring strain In genuine grandeur unsurpass'd by all Whose numbers loudly swell or softly fall, Of British bards the long illustrious train. But ne'er till now to my perceptions plain Appear'd the secret of that wondrous thrall O'er mightiest minds to melt or to appal, And the clear fount of Poesy to drain; Pouring forth blandest love or passion's rage, In varying verse of mingled sweet or strong. The highest truths that grace the holiest page Form the pure magic of thy Heav'n-taught song; And Gospel glories, ripening every age, Thy tuneful spell shall sacredly prolong.
