V.
The bard, who next the new-born saint addrest,
Was Milton, for his wonderous poem blest;
Who strangely found, in his Lost Paradise, rest.
“Great bard,” said he, “’twas verse alone
Did for my hideous crime atone,
Defending once the worst rebellion.
A double share of bliss belongs to thee,
For thy rich verse and thy firm loyalty;
Some of my harsh and uncouth points do owe
To thee a tuneful cadence still below.
Thine was indeed the state of innocence,
Mine of offence,
With studied treason and self-interest stained,
Till Paradise Lost wrought Paradise Regained.”
He said:—when thus our English Abraham,
(In heaven the second of that name,
Cowley, as glorious there as sacred here in fame,)
“Welcome, Aleides, to this happy place!
Our wish, and our long expectation here,
Makes thee to us more dear;
Thou great destroyer of that monstrous race,
Which our sad former seat did harass and disgrace,
Be blest and welcomed with our praise!
Thy great Herculean labours done,
And all the courses of thy zodiac run,
Shine here to us, a more illustrious sun!
But see! thy brethren gods in poetry,
The whole great race divine,
Ready in thy applause to join,
Who will supply what is defect in me.”