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eloquent and mellifluous. The reconciliation between Adam
and Eve is generally thought a copy of that between Milton
and his first wife.
The Didactic exists as an under-current through the
greater part of the poem, but is found especially in the 3d and
in the 8th books. Milton, sooth to say, is not a very good
didactic poet. He is better at creating gigantic or graceful
figures, than at expounding abstract truths. Had he given
us a system of Theology in verse—an Essay on God—it had
been altogether illegible.
The Picturesque is very abundant. How strikingly it is
displayed in the description of Beelzebub “rising like a
pillar of state;” in that of Raphael descending in his “downy
gold" and “feathered mail;” in that of the Serpent with his

“Circular base of rising folds, that tower'd,
Fold above fold, a surging maze;”

in that of the lion at his creation, “pawing to free his hinder parts;” and in the gallery of pictures shewn to Adam by Michael from the highest hill in Paradise! Milton has been charged with being rather a musical than a picturesque Poet—but the passages we have alluded to, and many more, confute the charge. Indeed, his blindness was certain to increase the outstanding distinctness and clearness of his imagery, as well as his sense of harmonious sound.

The Grotesque he has too frequently interwoven with the Grand. Under this head we rank the Limbo of vanity—the speeches of the fallen angels on the second day of the war in Heaven—perhaps also the transformation of Satan and his crew into Serpents—and certainly the “Sin and Death.” Yet, although too Dantesque or even Ariosto-like in its taste, the Allegory of Sin and Death abounds in most powerful poetry. It is a very rape of genius, but the progeny is glorious. For eloquence, interest, terrific suspense, there is nothing in the whole poem finer than the interview between Satan and his ghastly Son. This Allegory, however, must bear the blame of by far the coarsest and worst lines in the poem. They are these, put in the mouth of God, as he sees Sin and Death advancing upon the Earth:—

“I call'd and drew them thither,
My Hell-hounds, to lick up the draff and filth
Which Man's polluting Sin with taint hath shed
On what was pure, till crammed and gorged, nigh burst
With suck'd and glutted offal, at one sling
Of thy victorious arm, well-pleasing Son,” &c.

We think that to the same category of grotesqueness must belong the scene between Satan and the Anarchs of Chaos, although here, too, the apparent absurdity is redeemed by the splendour of the poetry. Who but Milton could have written these words?— “Chaos and his dark pavilion spread Wide on the wasteful deep ; with him enthroned Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of kings The consort of his reign ; and by them stood Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded Mame Of Demogorgon; Rumour next and chance And Tumult and Confusion all embroil'd, And Discord with a thousand various mouths.”

We name, finally, the Prosaic, as constituting no small portion of his poem. To this we have alluded a little before. It is found not at all in the first and second books; we meet with it first in the third ; in the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh, it is almost entirely awanting; while the eighth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth abound with it—indeed it becomes much more frequent and more leaden after the Fall, when the purpose of the Poet seems nearly accomplished, and the flush of his original fervour has faded away. These are the leading constituents of his great poem. But there are, besides, certain passages, having a personal reference, and a very profound interest;-for example, his address to Light, at the opening of the third book, is one of the divinest instincts in Poetry. How appropriate the position it occupies! Milton had filled his imagination with Hell and Chaos—he had almost identified himself with the dread Pilgrim who had made his way out of Hell's midnight into the regions of Day—and hence at the sight of the first sunbeam he cannot but utter a cry of welcome as fervid and loud as if HE had newly escaped from the outer darkness. So far from being, as it has been called, a splendid excrescence, the passage springs up natur

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ally in its place, and testifies to the thorough reality of the Poet's inspiration. Of its sublimity and yearning pathos, it is superfluous to speak.

Paradise Regained, could it have possibly been introduced into the Paradise Lost as an Episodical Vision, would have been thought not inferior in power to any other part of the poem, except the first two books; and in exquisite simplicity and gentle dignity, equal to anything in it all. But the title suggested a large plan, which the poem did not realise. Its name was ambitious, itself was short and unpretending, and it seemed to come to an abrupt and unartistic close. It avoided the grand subjects of Christ's Death, Resurrection, Ascension, and Second Advent, any or all of which the title was broad enough to have included. It should have been called Christ's Temptation, a Poem. It was not, in short, a proper pendant to the Paradise Lost. The one was the huge Orion or Great Bear, covering a half of the heavens; the other, the small tear-twinkling Pleiades. Hence it was a disappointment at first, and has never since received its due meed of praise. And yet, if comparatively a fragment, what a true, shapely, beautiful, fragment it is! Its power so quiet, its elegance so unconscious, its costume of language so Grecian, its general tone so scripturally simple, while its occasional speeches and descriptions are so gorgeous, and so faultless The views from the Mountain, the storm in the Wilderness, the dreams of Christ when he was an hungered, so exquisitely true to his waking character—

“Him thought, he by the brook of Cherith stood,
And saw the ravens, with their horny beaks,
Food to Elijah bringing even and morn,
Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they brought :
He saw the Prophet also, how he fled
Into the desart, and how there he slept
Under a juniper; then how awak'd,
And found his supper on the coals prepar'd,
Sometimes that with Elijah he partook,
Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse"—

are in the Poet's very highest style, and one or two of them, indeed, have a gloss of perfection about them, as well as an ease and freedom of touch rarely to be found in his larger poem. In the Paradise Lost, he is a giant tossing mountains to heaven with far seen struggle, and in evident trial of strength. In the Paradise Regained, he is a giant gently putting his foot on a rock, and leaving a mark inimitable, indelible, visible to all after time. His Samson Agonistes, too, accomplishes great effects by a very small apparent expenditure of means. Even as the Hero has his limbs fettered, has Milton cramped himself with the Aristotelian unities. Samson, however, says—

“My heels are fettered, but my fist is free.”

And so Milton's genius asserts itself in spite of the unities. If shaven of his giant locks, they have yet, like the Danite's, begun to grow. There is no luxuriance in this poem; it is throughout severe, sculptural, and stands up before you like a statue, bloodless and blind. A deep gloom hangs over its story, and the peevishness of its Hero is only compensated by his power. Samson is Milton in a hard Hebrew form. The fair vesture of youth and hope is for ever gone from his limbs, the hair of his head is shorn, he is clad in “filthy garments,” forsaken, blind, carelessly diffused; but his courage, pride, patriotism, and devotion, are still extant, and ready to reassert themselves once more to avenge the loss of his two eyes. His hand has few flowers in it, it strains rather at the pillars, and uses them as the instruments of its terrible concentrated force. His spirit is that of Abimelech, when he cried to his armour-bearer, “Say not a woman slew me.” Samson must die, with a city of enemies dragged down to death above him, and give to suicide for once a patriotic dignity and a sacramental consecration. The scenes with Delilah and Harapah are amazingly spirited and dramatic, although coarser in style than Milton's wont. The choruses rise sometimes to Grecian grandeur of lyric thought, and sink more frequently into Grecian intricacy of measure. Altogether, you believe with trembling in the power of this poem. It is no Hymettus humming with bees, and blushing with flowers; it is a Sinai, bared in the wrath of Heaven, hanging over your head, and threatening to crush wonder out of you rather than to awaken warm and willing admiration.

Time would fail us to speak, as they deserve, of Comus, that finest compound of the pastoral and the play, with its high moralisings and Shaksperean imagery; of L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, with their delicious contrast and dancing measures; of the Hymn on Christ's Nativity, which, slow and solemn as a charmed river, moves around the awful sanctities of its theme; of Lycidas, wailing so melodiously over

“That fatal and perfidious bark,

Built in the eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,
Which laid so low that sacred head of thine;”

of the Sonnets, rising in climax, from the rugged simplicity of those of Cyriack Skinner, up to the grand swelling peal (as of a Sonnet soaring out of itself into some higher form of verse) of that On the late Massacre in Piemont, or of his graceful Greek, Italian, and Latin verses and versicles. We have not said enough to exhaust our own admiration, but we have pointed again—with however feeble a finger—to fountains of song which no impurity defiles, and which are as fresh and full this hour as when they were first opened by the hand of the Master-spirit.

“Blessings be with him, and eternal praise !”

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