(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)
Milton!
the name of that divinest Bard
Acts on Imagination like a charm
Of holiest power; with deep, religious awe
She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd
The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.
O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,
With what astonishment, will all the sons
Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse
His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride
Will England ever boast her Milton's name,
The Poet matchless in sublimity!
E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound
The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;
Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,
They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power
No longer treads the guilt-polluted world,
But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air:
Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour,
When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake
With frames resuscitated, glorified:
Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard,
Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs,
Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir,
And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.