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| WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, | |
| In slender book his vast design unfold, | |
| Messiah crowned, God’s reconciled decree, | |
| Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, | |
| Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument | 5 |
| Held me awhile misdoubting his intent, | |
| That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) | |
| The sacred truths to fable and old song, | |
| (So Samson groped the temple’s posts in spite) | |
| The world o’erwhelming to revenge his sight. | 10 |
| Yet as I read, soon growing less severe, | |
| I liked his project the success did fear; | |
| Through that wide field how he his way should find, | |
| O’er which lame faith leads understanding blind; | |
| Lest he perplexed the things he would explain, | 15 |
| And what was easy he should render vain. | |
| Or if a work so infinite he spanned, | |
| Jealous I was that some less skilful hand | |
| (Such as disquiet always what is well, | |
| And by ill imitating would excel) | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure, | |
| While the Town-Bayes 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. | 50 |
| I too, transported by the mode, offend, | |
| And while I meant to praise thee, mis-commend; | |
| Thy verse created like thy theme sublime, | |
| In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. | |
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