is so abundant that the negligent | radise Lost, is a remarkable instance of rch of a straggling gleaner may be this.

arded with a sheaf. In support of these observations we The most striking characteristic of may remark, that scarcely any passages poetry of Milton is the extreme re- in the poems of Milton are more geeness of the associations by means nerally known or more frequently rehich it acts on the reader. Its ef-peated than those which are little more is produced, not so much by what than muster-rolls of names. They are xpresses, as by what it suggests not always more appropriate or more so much by the ideas which it di- melodious than other names. But they y conveys, as by other ideas which are charmed names. Every one of connected with them. He electri- them is the first link in a long chain of the mind through conductors. associated ideas. Like the dwellingmost unimaginative man must un-place of our infancy revisited in manand the Iliad. Homer gives him hood, like the song of our country choice, and requires from him no heard in a strange land, they produce tion, but takes the whole upon him- upon us an effect wholly independent and sets the images in so clear a of their intrinsic value. One transports , that it is impossible to be blind us back to a remote period of history. em. The works of Milton cannot Another places us among the novel comprehended or enjoyed, unless scenes and manners of a distant region. ind of the reader co-operate with A third evokes all the dear classical of the writer. He does not paint recollections of childhood, the schoolished picture, or play for a mere room, the dog-eared Virgil, the holive listener. He sketches, and day, and the prize. A fourth brings s others to fill up the outline. He before us the splendid phantoms of es the key-note, and expects his chivalrous romance, the trophied lists, r to make out the melody. the embroidered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted forests, the enchanted gardens, the achievements of enamoured knights, and the smiles of

e often hear of the magical ine of poetry. The expression in al means nothing: but, applied to ritings of Milton, it is most ap-rescued princesses. iate. His poetry acts like an intion. Its merit lies less in its obmeaning than in its occult power. would seem, at first sight, to be ore in his words than in other But they are words of enment. No sooner are they proed, than the past is present and stant near. New forms of beauty t once into existence, and all the places of the memory give up dead. Change the structure of ntence; substitute one synonyme other, and the whole effect is de1. The spell loses its power; e who should then hope to con- The Comus and the Samson Agoth it would find himself as much nistes are works which, though of very en as Cassim in the Arabian different merit, offer some marked points when he stood crying, Open of resemblance. Both are lyric poems ," "Open Barley," to the door in the form of plays. There are perobeyed no sound but " Open haps no two kinds of composition so

In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed than in the Allegro and the Penseroso. It is impossible to conceive that the mechanism of language can be brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems differ from others, as atar of roses differs from ordinary rose water, the close packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are indeed not so much poems, as collections of hints, from each of which the reader is to make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza.

66

The miserable failure of essentially dissimilar as the drama and a in his attempt to translate into the ode. The business of the dramatist n diction some parts of the Pa- | is to keep himself out of sight, and to

sensible to the merits of this piece, to the severe dignity o the graceful and pathetic sol the opening speech, or the barbaric melody which gives s an effect to the choral passa we think it, we confess, the cessful effort of the genius of The Comus is framed on of the Italian Masque, as the framed on the model of t Tragedy. It is certainly th performance of the kind wh in any language. It is a perior to the Faithful Sheph the Faithful Shepherdess Aminta, or the Aminta to t Fido. It was well for Milto had here no Euripides to mi He understood and loved the of modern Italy. But he di for it the same veneration entertained for the remains of and Roman poetry, consecra many lofty and endearing tions. The faults, moreove Italian predecessors were of which his mind had a dea pathy. He could stoop to style, sometimes even to a b but false brilliancy was his u sion. His muse had no obj russet attire; but she turned gust from the finery of G tawdry and as paltry as the chimney-sweeper on May-da ever ornaments she wears a sive gold, not only dazzli sight, but capable of sta severest test of the crucible.

Milton attended in the Co distinction which he afterw lected in the Samson. He Masque what it ought to be, lyrical, and dramatic only blance. He has not attempt less struggle against a defec in the nature of that speci position; and he has ther ceeded, wherever success wa possible. The speeches must majestic soliloquies; and h reads them will be enrapt their eloquence, their subli their music. The interrupt

other. We are by no means in- | dialogue, however, impose a constraint le to the merits of this celebrated upon the writer, and break the illusion to the severe dignity of the style, of the reader. The finest passages are raceful and pathetic solemnity of those which are lyric in form as well as pening speech, or the wild and in spirit. "I should much commend," ric melody which gives so striking says the excellent Sir Henry Wotton ect to the choral passages. But in a letter to Milton, "the tragical ink it, we confess, the least suc-part if the lyrical did not ravish me 1 effort of the genius of Milton. with a certain Dorique delicacy in Comus is framed on the model your songs and odes, whereunto, I Italian Masque, as the Samson is must plainly confess to you, I have d on the model of the Greek seen yet nothing parallel in our landy. It is certainly the noblest guage." The criticism was just. It is mance of the kind which exists when Milton escapes from the shackles y language. It is as far su- of the dialogue, when he is discharged to the Faithful Shepherdess as from the labour of uniting two inconFaithful Shepherdess is to the gruous styles, when he is at liberty to ta, or the Aminta to the Pastor indulge his choral raptures without It was well for Milton that he reserve, that he rises even above himere no Euripides to mislead him. self. Then, like his own good Genius derstood and loved the literature bursting from the earthly form and dern Italy. But he did not feel weeds of Thyrsis, he stands forth in the same veneration which he celestial freedom and beauty; he seems ained for the remains of Athenian to cry exultingly, Roman poetry, consecrated by so lofty and endearing recollecThe faults, moreover, of his n predecessors were of a kind to skim the earth, to soar above the his mind had a deadly anti- clouds, to bathe in the Elysian dew of the . He could stoop to a plain rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells sometimes even to a bald style; of nard and cassia, which the musky lse brilliancy was his utter aver-winds of the zephyr scatter through His muse had no objection to a the cedared alleys of the Hesperides. attire; but she turned with disfrom the finery of Guarini, as y and as paltry as the rags of a ney-sweeper on May-day. Whatornaments she wears are of masgold, not only dazzling to the but capable of standing the

est test of the crucible.

to

"Now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly or I can run,"

There are several of the minor poems of Milton on which we would willingly make a few remarks. Still more willingly would we enter into a detailed examination of that admirable poem, the Paradise Regained, which, strangely enough, is scarcely ever mentioned except as an instance of the lton attended in the Comus to the blindness of the parental affection ction which he afterwards neg- which men of letters bear towards the 1 in the Samson. He made his offspring of their intellects. That Milue what it ought to be, essentially ton was mistaken in preferring this l, and dramatic only in sem-work, excellent as it is, to the Parae. He has not attempted a fruit-dise Lost, we readily admit. But we struggle against a defect inherent are sure that the superiority of the e nature of that species of com- Paradise Lost to the Paradise Reion; and he has therefore suc-gained is not more decided, than the ed, wherever success was not im-superiority of the Paradise Regained to ble. The speeches must be read as every poem which has since made its stic soliloquies; and he who so appearance. Our limits, however, prethem will be enraptured with vent us from discussing the point at eloquence, their sublimity, and length. We hasten on to that extramusic. The interruptions of the ordinary production which the general

has heard the tormented spiri out for the second death, who the dusky characters on th within which there is no hope hidden his face from the terr Gorgon, who has fled from t and the seething pitch of Ba and Draghignazzo. His ow have grasped the shaggy side cifer. His own feet have cli mountain of expiation. His o has been marked by the purifyi The reader would throw asid tale in incredulous disgust, were told with the stronges veracity, with a sobriety eve horrors, with the greatest prec multiplicity in its details. Th tive of Milton in this respe from that of Dante, as the a of Amadis differ from those of The author of Amadis wo made his book ridiculous if h troduced those minute particul give such a charm to the work the nautical observations, the delicacy about names, the offic ments transcribed at full lengt the unmeaning gossip and s the court, springing out of not tending to nothing. We are no at being told that a man w nobody knows when, saw m strange sights, and we can eas don ourselves to the illusion mance. But when Lemuel surgeon, resident at Rotherh us of pygmies and giants, flyin and philosophising horses, no such circumstantial touches c duce for a single moment a on the imagination.

Of all the poets who have in into their works the agency natural beings, Milton has best. Here Dante decidedly him and as this is a point many rash and ill-consider ments have been pronounced inclined to dwell on it a litt The most fatal error which a possibly commit in the manag his machinery, is that of atter philosophise too much. M been often censured for asc spirits many functions of whi

ard the tormented spirits crying | must be incapable. But these objec tions, though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, in profound ignorance of the art of poetry.

the second death, who has read sky characters on the portal which there is no hope, who has his face from the terrors of the who has fled from the hooks seething pitch of Barbariccia aghignazzo. His own hands rasped the shaggy sides of LuHis own feet have climbed the in of expiation. His own brow marked by the purifying angel. ader would throw aside such a incredulous disgust, unless it ld with the strongest air of , with a sobriety even in its with the greatest precision and icity in its details. The narraMilton in this respect differs at of Dante, as the adventures dis differ from those of Gulliver. thor of Amadis would have is book ridiculous if he had ind those minute particulars which ch a charm to the work of Swift, itical observations, the affected y about names, the official docu- Logicians may reason about abstracranscribed at full length, and all tions. But the great mass of men must meaning gossip and scandal of have images. The strong tendency of rt, springing out of nothing, and the multitude in all ages and nations to nothing. We are not shocked to idolatry can be explained on no g told that a man who lived, other principle. The first inhabitants knows when, saw many very of Greece, there is reason to believe, sights, and we can easily aban- worshipped one invisible Deity. But rselves to the illusion of the ro- the necessity of having something more But when Lemuel Gulliver, definite to adore produced, in a few , resident at Rotherhithe, tells centuries, the innumerable crowd of ygmies and giants, flying islands, Gods and Goddesses. In like manner ilosophising horses, nothing but the ancient Persians thought it impious rcumstantial touches could pro- to exhibit the Creator under a human or a single moment a deception form. Yet even these transferred to the imagination. Sun the worship which, in speculation, ll the poets who have introduced they considered due only to the Sueir works the agency of super-preme Mind. The history of the Jews beings, Milton has succeeded is the record of a continued struggle Here Dante decidedly yields to between pure Theism, supported by and as this is a point on which the most terrible sanctions, and the rash and ill-considered judg- strangely fascinating desire of having have been pronounced, we feel some visible and tangible object of adod to dwell on it a little longer. ration. Perhaps none of the secondary ost fatal error which a poet can causes which Gibbon has assigned for y commit in the management of the rapidity with which Christianity chinery, is that of attempting to spread over the world, while Judaism phise too much. Milton has scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, often censured for ascribing to operated more powerfully than this many functions of which spirits feeling. God, the uncreated, the in

What is spirit? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit with which we are best acquainted? We observe certain phænomena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We therefore infer that there exists something which is not material. But of this something we have no idea. We can define it only by negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the word; but we have no image of the thing; and the business of poetry is with images, and not with words. The poet uses words indeed; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its objects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And if they are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called poetry than a bale of canvass and a box of colours to be called a painting.