alarms,
  Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms: 
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  Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
  And all the northern world lies hushed in peace. 
     The ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread
  Her thunder aimed at his aspiring head,
  And fain her godlike sons would disunite
  By foreign gold, or by domestic spite;
  But strives in vain to conquer or divide,
  Whom Nassau’s arms defend and counsels guide. 
     Fired with the name, which I so oft have found
  The distant climes and different tongues resound,
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  I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain,
  That longs to launch into a bolder strain. 
     But I’ve already troubled you too long,
  Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song. 
  My humble verse demands a softer theme,
  A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
  Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays,
  And lines like Virgil’s, or like yours, should praise.

  MILTON’S STYLE IMITATED,

  IN A TRANSLATION OF A STORY OUT OF THE THIRD AENEID.

  Lost in the gloomy horror of the night,
  We struck upon the coast where AEtna lies,
  Horrid and waste, its entrails fraught with fire,
  That now casts out dark fumes and pitchy clouds,
  Vast showers of ashes hovering in the smoke;
  Now belches molten stones and ruddy flame,
  Incensed, or tears up mountains by the roots,
  Or slings a broken rock aloft in air. 
  The bottom works with smothered fire involved
  In pestilential vapours, stench, and smoke.
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     ’Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus
  Groveling beneath the incumbent mountain’s weight,
  Lies stretched supine, eternal prey of flames;
  And, when he heaves against the burning load,
  Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,
  A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle,
  And AEtna thunders dreadful under-ground,
  Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolved,
  And shades the sun’s bright orb, and blots out day. 
     Here in the shelter of the woods we lodged,
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  And frighted heard strange sounds and dismal yells,
  Nor saw from whence they came; for all the night
  A murky storm deep lowering o’er our heads
  Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom
  Opposed itself to Cynthia’s silver ray,
  And shaded all beneath.  But now the sun
  With orient beams had chased the dewy night
  From earth and heaven; all nature stood disclosed: 
  When, looking on the neighbouring woods, we saw
  The ghastly visage of a man unknown,
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  An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild;
  Affliction’s foul and terrible dismay
  Sat in his looks, his face, impaired and worn
  With marks of famine, speaking sore distress;
  His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard
  Matted with filth; in all things else a Greek. 
     He first advanced in