N° 141.
THE RAMBLER.
211
Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree?
The sun to me is dark,
And silent as the moon,
When she deserts the night,
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Since light so necessary is to life,
And almost life itself; if it be true
That light is in the soul,
She all in ev’ry part; why was the sight
To such a tender ball as th’eye confin'd,
So obvious and so easy to be quench'd?
And not, as feeling, thro’ all parts diffus’d,
That she may look at will thro’ ev’ry pore.
Such are the faults and such the beauties of Samson Agonistes, which I have shown with no other purpose than to promote the knowledge of true criticism. The everlasting verdure of Milton's laurels has nothing to fear from the blasts of malignity; nor can my attempt produce any other effect, than to strengthen their shoots by lopping their luxuriance.
Numb. 141. Tuesday, July 23, 1751.
Hilarisque, tamen cum pondere, virtus. | Stat. |
Greatness with ease and gay severity. | |
TotheRAMBLER.
SIR,
POliticians have long observed, that the greatest events may be often traced back to slender causes. Petty competition or casual friendship, the prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a