arms resound!)
    All grim with rage, he frowns o’er Turnus’ head,
    (Re-kindled ire! for blooming Pallas dead)
    Then, in his bosom plung’d the shining blade—­
    The soul indignant sought the Stygian shade!

    The far-fam’d bards that grac’d Britannia’s isle,
    Should next compose the venerable pile. 
    Great Milton first, for tow’ring thought renown’d,
    Parent of song, and fam’d the world around! 
    His glowing breast divine Urania fir’d,
    Or GOD himself th’ immortal Bard inspir’d. 
    Borne on triumphant wings he take this flight,
    Explores all heaven, and treads the realms of light: 
    In martial pomp he clothes th’ angelic train,
    While warring myriads shake th’ etherial plain. 
    First Michael stalks, high tow’ring o’er the rest;
    With heav’nly plumage nodding on his crest: 
    Impenetrable arms his limbs unfold,
    Eternal adamant, and burning gold! 
    Sparkling in fiery mail, with dire delight,
    Rebellious Satan animates the fight: 
    Armipotent they sink in rolling smoke,
    All heav’n resounding, to its centre shook,
    To crush his foes, and quell the dire alarms,
    Messiah sparkled in refulgent arms;
    In radient panoply divinely bright,
    His limbs incas’d, he slash’d devouring light,
    On burning wheels, o’er heav’n’s crystalline road
    Thunder’d the chariot of thy Filial God;
    The burning wheels on golden axles turn’d,
    With flaming gems the golden axles burn’d. 
    Lo! the apostate host, with terror struck,
    Roll back by millions!  Th’ Empyrean shook! 
    Sceptres, and orbid shields, and crowns of gold,
    Cherubs and Seraphs in confusion roll’d;
    Till, from his hand, the triple thunder hurl’d,
    Compell’d them headlong, to th’ Infernal world.

    Then tuneful Pope, whom all the nine inspire,
    With saphic sweetness, and pindaric fire. 
    Father of verse! melodious and divine! 
    Next peerless Milton should distinguish’d shine. 
    Smooth flow his numbers when he paints the grove,
    Th’ enraptur’d virgins list’ning into love. 
    But when the night and hoarse resounding storm,
    Rush on the deep, and Neptune’s face deform,
    Rough runs the verse, the son’rous numbers roar
    Like the hoarse surge that thunders on the shore. 
    But when he sings th’ exhilerated swains,
    Th’ embow’ring groves, and Windsor’s blissful plains,
    Our eyes are ravish’d with the sylvan scene,
    Embroider’d fields, and groves in living green: 
    His lays the verdure of the meads prolong,
    And wither’d forests blossom in his song;
    Thames’ silver streams his flowing verse admire,
    And cease to murmur while he tunes his lyre.