Yet as I read, still growing less severe, I liked his project, the success did fear; Through that wild field how he his way should find, O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, And what was easy he should render vain. Or if a work so infinite be 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. That 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 that Paradise you sing, So never flags, but always keeps on wing. Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; While the Town-Bays 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 rhyme. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 1 How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays! And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose. 2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. 3 No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.