Paradise lost, a poem. With the life of the author [by E. Fenton].

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240 psl. - O! why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heaven With spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men, as angels, without feminine; Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
45 psl. - Their song was partial, but the harmony (What could it less when spirits immortal sing?) Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment The thronging audience.
61 psl. - And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou celestial Light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all 'mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.
253 psl. - O unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both.
204 psl. - Stood in himself collected, while each part, Motion, each act won audience ere the tongue...
60 psl. - Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite.
187 psl. - I now must change Those notes to tragic ; foul distrust, and breach Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt And disobedience : on the part of Heaven Now alienated, distance and distaste, Anger and just rebuke, and judgment given, That brought into this world a world of woe.
282 psl. - New Heavens, new Earth, ages of endless date, Founded in righteousness, and peace, and love; To bring forth fruits, joy and eternal bliss.
111 psl. - Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our Great Maker still new praise.
215 psl. - The fig-tree ; not that kind for fruit renown'd, But such as at this day, to Indians known, In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms Branching so broad and long, that in the ground The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade High over-arch'd, and echoing walks between...

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