quently referred, disapproves, as "too earthly, and too familiar I own that this has always been my own opinion of this, and of a few other passages in Paradise Lost, from which,-so exquisitely is it elaborated, though in so short a time of composition,- Paradise Regained is entirely free. How ethereal and supernatural are the two feasts in this poem; the angelic feast provided for Jesus in the passage above cited, and the supernatural feast provided by Satan to tempt Jesus in the wilderness, which we shall hereafter have occasion to present, as an intellectual feast for the entertainment of our readers!

Although, however, it is scarcely possible to pass without remark such a noble strain of poetic inspiration, as the one above cited, I have quoted it for another purpose,-namely, to illustrate my meaning in the remarks, with which it was introduced, upon the different principles of composition to be distinguished in the two great poems of our Milton. The fall of Satan in this splendid pas sage is, as I have already remarked, in the style and spirit of Paradise Lost. It bears a strong resemblance to Satan's Fall from Heaven in that sublime poem. It describes "high action." The style therefore rises, and becomes animated, copious, and sublime. Whereas two lines are enough for the expression of the heavenly mind, and to depict the self-sustained figure and attitude of the unruffled Jesus. How different the characters and the conduct of the two! How nobly are they depicted by the master-hand of the poet! The spirit of Jesus, fitly and beautifully expressed by the erect posture in such a perilous situation, is as calm as his own heaven. The spirit of Satan is more gloomy and disturbed than "the tossing of those fiery waves,"-where

"He with his horrid crew

Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulph;

-o'erwhelmed

With floods and whirlwinds, and tempestuous fire."

Par: Lost B. I. 51, 76.

Of the principle on which the poem of Paradise Regained is composed, and by which it is to be distinguished from Paradise Lost, I need not add more. It is perfectly suited to the subject, which is that of silent and sacred contemplation. The style is as suitable, and as perfect as we can imagine it to be formed. If the reader cannot find delight and instruction in this last effort of our mighty poet, the defect, he may rest assured, exists in his own mind, not in the work of his author.

But is the Poetry, even in the most popular sense of that word, more dull, less ethereal, and less perfect than that of Paradise Lost ? So far as the subject, in any part of it, will admit of amplification,

Par. Lost. B. ii. 388. See Sir Egerton Brydges note vol. 2. p. 278. I earnestly recommend this beautiful and cheap Edition,-the best yet publish. ed, of Millou's Poetical Works in 6 vol: to be placed in the Colombo Lis brary, and other public Libraries of the Island.

† Par. Regd. B. ii. 337-377.

I have shewn by the splendid passage above cited, the Poet's wing is as strong as ever. He can at will soar into the empyreau, er move with grace and beauty in the lower regions of the air. I will, however, quote some select passages to set forth, to the con viction of the most prosaic reader, the varied beauty of this most exquisite Paem, which is second only to Paradise Lost. Indeed in none of his works, according to their size, are there to be found more numerous specimens of the different species of moral, didactic, descriptive, and imaginative poetry, than in the neglected poem of Paradise Regained.

But my present remarks have already extended to such a length, that I must defer this pleasing task to a future number. I shall there select some of the more striking passages,--at least those which I consider the most perfect; for the more striking are by no means always the most perfect. But Milton has none of the false glare and glitter of ordinary writers; and the plainest passages are often the most ethereal and sublime in thought, and as perfect in diction. Those passages, in connection with what I have already cited, will shew that his mind had lost none of its power, nor his ima◄ gination one ray of its brightness, by years and by sorrows. But, as it has been justly remarked of this great Poet,-" In every des cription Milton has seized the most picturesque features, and found the most expressive and poetical words for it. On the mirror of his mind all creation was delineated in the clearest and most brilliant forms and colours; and he has reflected these with such har mony and enchantment of language, as has never been equalled." B.

SONNET TO MILTON.

(Written in 1829.)

"MILTON! Thou should'st be living at this hour!" *

But not thy huge two-handed sword to wield,

And smite thine enemies. Methinks a shield

Should shade a great man's wrath, and veil the power,

That stirs the noble, but which is the dower

Of meaner bosoms; while the ample field

Of virtue by deep Quietness is held.

There Wisdom dwells-there is the Muses' bower

There Contemplation folds her silent wings—
And Beauty breathes around her odorous breath;

And Fancy to the heavenly banquet brings

Her loveliest flowers, and twines her choicest wreath :
And o'er the whole Imagination flings

A light that dares the darkest shades of death.

B.

Wordsworth.

XH.

How often like a brilliant gem unsought,

Or meteor flashing bright through moonless skies;
Thy image and thy worth, sweet maid, are brought
In all their loveliness before mine eyes;

And with that vision deep emotions rise

From memory's mine of fondly treasured thought,
Sweet as the perfuine from the moss rose shed,
Which lingers on, although the flower be dead!
Alone-in crowds-through joy or withering pain,
My soul still turns to thee, its guiding star;
The sigh that heaves this aching heart is vain
Thou can'st not hear it breathe-thou art afar
Dearest!--I would not have its echo mar
Thy bosom's peace-between us the deep main
Rolls darkly onward, with a sullen war,

Which seems to say-I ne'er may meet thee more!
I loved thee once, when in my bounding heart
Hope's joyous fount was gushing wild and warm.
That vision from my soul shall ne'er depart
I love thee now-in darkness and in storm,
As fondly as when first I saw thy form;
And tho' relentless fate doth bid us part,
Remembrance turns to thee with hopeless will,
'Mid sorrow and despair-I love thee still!
Tho' I no more behold those star like
eyes,
That sparkle with a mild, a chastened beam,
Iake that which hangs in deep Italian skies,
Or moonlight glancing on a summer stream;
Thou art my morning thought-my midnight dream.
To thee my ever waking fancy flies,

And in its flight methinks, I press thy hand,

And clasp those charms, that I may ne'er command! With the wild waves of destiny to cope

"Twere useless now-these aching eyes can see.

On the horizon, the last gleam of hope,

Receding into shade-forsaking me

Nought now remains, save memory of thee!
And if some bright spot to my view should ope,
Too soon, alas! it sinks away from sight.

And on my heart descends the veil of endless night!
Whate'er my lot-Oh, may'st thou never know
A pang like that which rends this bosom now,
And never may the murky cloud of woe,
Dim thy bright eye, or stain thy polish'd brow.
Once more, farewell! oh take my latest vow
The last that from this loving heart shall flow;
Or bright or dark, my future fate may be,
Through weal or wo—this heart must throb for thee!

B. G.

XIII.

Ob! think of me when absent,
And let not distance cast
A coldness o'er thy mem'ry,
Or a shadow o'er the past.
But every day, each morrow,
Where'er thy home may be;
In gladness, or in sorrow,

Oh! think, still think of me.

And should'st thou see a stranger
Who like myself doth roam,
Far, far away from kindred,

And his dear, his native home;
Where'er thou thus dost meet him,
Oh, let the wand'rer see
How kindly thou canst greet him
For think, Oh! think of me.

And when the Sabbath calls thee
Unto the House of Prayer,

Still let my mem'ry mingle
With thy meditations there.
Then, when in solemn silence
All meekly bow the knee
Before their great Creator,

Oh! breathe a Prayer for me.

And when, the old year waning,
Thou giv'st an hour to mirth,
With friends assembled round thee
To greet the New Year's birth.
Then, when the rich wine sparkles,
And all is mirth and glee,

With toast on toast succeeding,

Fill, fill one glass to me.

ED. C. M.