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vital signs it had, was likely to live; but much latelier, in the
private academies of Italy, perceiving that some trifles which I
had in memory, composed at under twenty or thereabout, met
with acceptance above what was looked for; I began thus far
to assent both to them and divers of my friends here at home,
and not less to an inward prompting which now grew daily
upon me, that by labour and intense study (which I take to be
my portion in this life,) joined with the strong propensity of na-
ture, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times
as they should not willingly let it die. The accomplishment
of these intentions, which have lived within me ever since I
could conceive myself anything worth to my country, lies not
but in a power above man's to promise; but that none hath by
more studious ways endeavoured, and with more unwearied
spirit that none shall, that I dare almost aver of myself, as far as
life and free leisure will extend. Neither do I think it shame to
covenant with any knowing reader, that for some few years yet,
I may go on trust with him toward the payment of what I am
now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from the heat of
youth or the vapours of wine; like that which flows at waste
from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the trencher fury of a
rhyming parasite, nor to be obtained by the invocation of Dame
Memory and her Siren daughters, but by devout prayer to that
eternal Spirit who can enrich with all utterance and knowledge,
and sends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar,
to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases: to this must
be added industrious and select reading, steady observation, and
insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs. Although
it nothing content me to have disclosed thus much beforehand;
but that I trust hereby to make it manifest with what small
willingness I endured to interrupt the pursuit of no less hopes
than these, and leave a calm and pleasing solitariness, fed with
cheerful and confident thoughts, to embark in a troubled sea of
noises and hoarse disputes, from beholding the bright counte-
nance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.”
So that of Spenser:

"The noble heart that harbours virtuous thought,

And is with child of glorious great intent,

Can never rest until it forth have brought

The eternal brood of glory excellent.”

Milton, therefore, did not write from casual impulse, but after a severe examination of his own strength, and with a resolution to leave nothing undone which it was in his power to do. He always labours, and almost always succeeds. He strives hard to say the finest things in the world, and he does say them. He adorns and dignifies his subject to the utmost: he surrounds it with every possible association of beauty or grandeur, whether moral, intellectual, or physical. He refines on his descriptions of beauty; loading sweets on sweets, till the sense aches at them; and raises his images of terror to a gigantic elevation, that "makes Ossa like a wart." In Milton, there is always an appearance of effort: in Shakspeare, scarcely any.

Milton has borrowed more than any other writer, and exhausted every source of imitation, sacred or profane; yet he is perfectly distinct from every other writer. He is a writer of centos, and yet in originality scarcely inferior to Homer. The power of his mind is stamped on every line. The fervour of his imagination melts down and renders malleable, as in a furnace, the most contradictory materials. In reading his works, we feel ourselves under the influence of a mighty intellect, that the nearer it approaches to others, becomes more distinct from them. The quantity of art in him shows the strength of his genius: the weight of his intellectual obligations would have oppressed any other writer. Milton's learning has all the effect of intuition. He describes objects, of which he could only have read in books, with the vividness of actual observation. His imagination has the force of nature. He makes words tell as pictures.

"Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks

Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams."

The word lucid here gives to the idea all the sparkling effect of the most perfect landscape.

And again:

"As when a vulture on Imaus bred,

Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,

Dislodging from a region scarce of prey,

To gorge the flesh of lambs and yeanling kids

On hills where flocks are fed, flies towards the springs

Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams;

But in his way lights on the barren plains

Of Sericana, where Chineses drive

With sails and wind their cany wagons light."

If Milton had taken a journey for the express purpose, he could not have described this scenery and mode of life better. Such passages are like demonstrations of natural history. Instances might be multiplied without end.

'There is also a decided tone in his descriptions, an eloquent dogmatism, as if the poet spoke from thorough conviction, which Milton probably derived from his spirit of partisanship, or else his spirit of partisanship from the natural firmness and vehemence of his mind. In this Milton resembles Dante (the only one of the moderns with whom he has anything in common,) and it is remarkable that Dante, as well as Milton, was a political partisan. That approximation to the severity of impassioned prose, which has been made an objection to Milton's poetry, is one of its chief excellencies.

We might be tempted to suppose that the vividness with which he describes visible objects was owing to their having acquired an unusual degree of strength in his mind, after the privation of his sight; but we find the same palpableness and truth in the descriptions which occur in his early poems. In Lycidas he speaks of "the great vision of the guarded mount,” with that preternatural weight of impression with which it would present itself suddenly to "the pilot of some small night-foundered skiff:" and the lines in the Penseroso, describing "the wandering moon,"

"Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,"

are as if he had gazed himself blind in looking at her. There is also the same depth of impression in his descriptions of the objects of all the different senses, whether colours, or sounds, or smells the same absorption of his mind in whatever engaged

his attention at the time. by gusto as any poet.* He forms the most intense conception of things, and then embodies them by a single stroke of his pen. He has an inveterate attachment to the objects he describes and to the words describing them:

Milton had as much of what is meant

"Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss."

It has been indeed objected to Milton, by a common perversity of criticism, that his ideas were musical rather than picturesque, as if, because they were in the highest degree musical, they must be (to keep the sage critical balance even, and to allow no one man to possess two qualities at the same time) proportionably deficient in other respects. But Milton's poetry is not cast in any such narrow, common-place mould; it is not so barren of resources. His worship of the Muse was not so simple or confined. A sound arises "like a steam of rich distilled perfumes ;" we hear the pealing organ, but the incense on the altars is also there, and the statues of the gods are ranged around! The ear indeed predominates over the eye, because it is more immediately affected, and because the language of music blends more immediately with, and forms a more natural accompaniment to, the variable and indefinite associations of ideas conveyed by words. But where the associations of the imagination are not the principal thing, the individual object is given by Milton with equal force and beauty. The strongest and best proof of this, as a characteristic power of his mind, is, that the persons of Adam and Eve, of Satan, &c., are always accompanied, in our imagination, with the grandeur of the naked figure; they convey to us the idea of sculpture. As an instance, take the following:

Saw within ken a glorious Angel stand,

The same whom John saw also in the sun :

His back was turned, but not his brightness hid;

Of beaming sunny rays a golden tiar

Circled his head, nor less his locks behind

* The infinite quantity of dramatic invention in Shakspeare takes from his gusto. The power he delights to show is not intense, but discursive. He never insists on anything as much as he might, except a quibble.

Illustrious on his shoulders fledge with wings

Lay waving round; on some great charge employ'd
He seem'd, or fix'd in cogitation deep.

Glad was the spirit impure, as now in hope
To find who might direct his wand'ring flight
To Paradise, the happy seat of man

His journey's end, and our beginning woe.
But first he casts to change his proper shape,
Which else might work him danger or delay:
And now a stripling cherub he appears,
Not of the prime, yet such as in his face
Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb
Suitable grace diffus'd, so well he feign'd:
Under a coronet his flowing hair

In curls on either cheek play'd; wings he wore
Of many a colour'd plume sprinkled with gold,
His habit fit for speed succinct, and held
Before his decent steps a silver wand."

The figures introduced here have all the elegance and precision of a Greek statue; glossy and impurpled, tinged with golden light, and musical as the strings of Memnon's harp!

Again, nothing can be more magnificent than the portrait of Beelzebub:

"With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear

The weight of mightiest monarchies :"

Or the comparison of Satan, as he "lay floating many a rood," to "that sea beast,"

"Leviathan, which God of all his works

Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream!"

What a force of imagination is there in this last expression! What an idea it conveys of the size of that hugest of created beings, as if it shrunk up the ocean to a stream, and took up the sea in its nostrils as a very little thing! Force of style is one of Milton's greatest excellences. Hence, perhaps, he stimulates us more in the reading, and less afterwards. The way to defend Milton against all impugners is to take down the book and read it.

Milton's blank verse is the only blank verse in the language (except Shakspeare's) that deserves the name of verse.

Dr.