Hail, sacred Milton! in whose deathless strain, Nature and art, united praise attain. Correct and pure thy heav'nly numbers flow, Yet, with the keenest flame of genius glow, Thro' all the records of eternal fate, Fame saw but one of nature's works so great.
Britannia's boast! whose lyre by angels strung, Resounded equal to the themes he sung. That man his nature might with pleasure see, In its full height — God said, Let Milton be. Then, as when first his world its charms display'd, Beheld, approv'd, and blest the work he made. Whether his song, to hell's dark depth descend, Where night and woe united sway extend; Or to fair Eden's happier climes arise, Or paint the brighter splendors of the skies, On boundless grandeur, one informing soul Sustains, illumes, and animates the whole.
