great living Master, I cannot find an encomiastic tribute to Milton worthy to be compared with the brief allusion to the Poet and his loss of sight, left us by that 'consummate master of poetic diction:'

'Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy;

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:

The living throne, the sapphire blaze,

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw, but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.'"

E." There is something Miltonic in that noble motet-pity that so grand a swell should so soon die away! But as it relates to the hero-the Rider on seraph-wings, is it not a moving piece of mental imagery, capable of metamorphoses stranger in their reality than are many of the wonders of romance, that blind Old Man seated in modest apparel beside his lowly portal, in all the pitiable impotency of his infirmity; 'on evil days fallen, with dangers compassed, in darkness and solitude;' and then, (marvellous contrast between corporeal imbecility and mental puissance!) to view him as withdrawn from contact with the strife of 'evil tongues,' as having entered into synods of gods, and with intellect augmented by archangelic intercourse, reporting

' things invisible to mortal sight:'—

nor uninteresting is it to reflect, by what casual instrumentality were recorded

'The visions which arose without a sleep.'*

I humbly think, however, (an error, perhaps, of the voluntary taste of common intellect,'t) that the current of his august conceptions is sometimes prejudicially diverted by extraneous supplies;-the main fluxion is too much troubled by the tributary streams that at frequent intervals come pouring into it from the Pierian springs,

' which rush,

No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood.'‡

Turning, as we have done, from Shakspeare to Milton, from effusions, literally effusions of simplicity, to a production distinguished for scholarship,-the transition is unfavorable (in my poor estimation) to Milton, as it regards general effectiveness. There is so magnetic a charm in the naïveté of Nature's Pet! Did they both stand in breathing statuary, a natural impulse would render before Milton the homage of a reverent genuflexion; but, loving more and worshipping not less, we would approach that other Oracle, as a Champion who had done the state some service' might advance to the salutation of a smiling Queen. + Sir E. Brydges.

6

* Lament of Tasso. Byron.

Cowper's Translation of Milton's Latin Poem to his Father.

I think I have previously mentioned to you a venerable friend, who, with a love of poetry of which Age has not chilled the ardency, is, strangely, little 'moved by concord of sweet sounds,' and trusts, (in his own quaint expression,) to find that heaven is something better than a large orchestra.' His appreciation of 'glorious, untutored Will, and mighty, scholastic John,' is genuinely British. That ostentatious display of scholarship—that seizing upon every occasion to let the world know how well he was acquainted with all the realms of Art and Science, of classic and romantic lore, which is continually visible in Miltonis not at all to my taste (says he); but Willie's 'sweet neglect of artistical embellishment-the ease with which his pen transfixes ideal images of grace and beauty, without casting carefully about for 'florid prose or honied rhyme,' and yet so frequently exquisite where seemingly unstudied-are features that when the eye looks upon, it loves.' He who thus opineth was with me a few days since: he is a logician, and has a habit of demanding 'proof' upon assertion, which makes it advisable, before introducing to him an hypothesis, to ascertain that it has legs to stand on. During a cursory discussion upon Milton, I meekly ventured to hint how fair a field might Moore have found in Paradise, prior to our Ancestors' ejectment: the pen that reported the Loves of the Angels, would

not its current have chrystalized, and flowed in rainbow-hues, as it told of the Garden, when, as with the yet-lingering pressure of the Creator's hand, it was

pronounced good,' and was blissful as are all things which are born of GOD. 'Twas an evening lovely as that we just now witnessed, when my ancient ally was with me; and the beautiful time so forcibly suggested the primeval vesper-hour, ere Danger frowned through the darkness to agitate Dread, and when, by gentle graduation brooded over by the silver-winged Silence, the young world sunk, in the languor of long happiness to rest, in order to recruit its capacity of enjoyment for the repletion of the morrow;-in all the grandeur of its serenity, the time, I say, so much impressed me, that when my companion left (unused, albeit, to 'spend my prodigal wits in bootless rhymes*), I could not abstain from lamely chasing the idea of

* Love's Labour Lost, v. 2.

THE APPROACH OF NIGHT

IN EDEN.

TO tranquillize th' ecstatic Hours,
A soothing umber-shade was given,
Which Day eterne hath not in Heaven;
Nor lent to Earth, unless that powers
Not infinite might wearied be

By o'er-prolonged felicity.

But who may paint, what accents tell,

The infant Sun's sublime farewell?

The splendor of day were palor now
To the fulgency of his fiery brow,

As, like a god with glory drest,
Whose robe illumed his couch of rest,
He sunk within the crimson'd West.

And now, the ruddy day-beams fleetly failing, Night falls on Eden like a spirit's wing;

Fresh fragrance all th' odorous bow'rs exhaling,

Inspiring which their quires forget to sing: