cottage at Chalfont, in Bucks, to which the poet had withdrawn from the plague, then raging in the metropolis; but it was not published till two years afterwards, when the copyright was purchased by Samuel Simmons, a bookseller, on the following terms: when the duties were shared, first with Philip Mea-him greater leisure; it was completed in 1665, at a dowes, and afterwards with the excellent Andrew Marvell. He served Cromwell when Cromwell had thrown off the mask and assumed all but the name of king, and it is to be regretted that, like his friend Bradshaw, the poet had not disclaimed this new and usurped tyranny, though dignified by a master mind. He was probably hurried along by the stormy tide of events, till he could not well recede. For ten years Milton's eyesight had been failing, owing to the 'wearisome studies and midnight watchings' of his youth. The last remains of it were sacrificed in the composition of his Defensio Populi (he was willing and proud to make the sacrifice), and by the close of the year 1652, he was totally blind, 'Dark, dark, irrecoverably dark.' His wife died about the same time; but he soon married again. His second partner died within a year, and he consecrated to her memory one of his simple, but solemn and touching sonnets: Methought I saw my late espoused saint I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night. An immediate payment of £5, and £5 more when 1300 copies should be sold; the like sum after the same number of the second edition (each edition to consist of 1500 copies), and other £5 after the sale of the third. The third edition was not published till 1678 (when the poet was no more), and his widow (Milton married a third time, about 1660) sold all her claims to Simmons for £8. It appears that in the comparatively short period of two years, the poet became entitled to his second payment, so that 1300 copies of 'Paradise Lost' had been sold in the Apal 26 1669 Rut then of Samurt Semmens five pound be my the second fove pounds mentioned in the Cowdrant I fan raad by Witness Comino Joher millora The Restoration deprived Milton of his public employment, and exposed him to danger, but by the interest of Davenant and Marvell (as has been said), his name was included in the general amnesty. The great poet was now at liberty to pursue his private studies, and to realise the devout aspirations of his Milton's Cottage at Chalfont. youth for an immortality of literary fame. His spirit was unsubdued. Paradise Lost was begun in 1658, when the division of the secretaryship gave Lipton Fac-simile of Milton's Second Receipt to Simmons. two first years of its publication-a proof that the nation was not, as has been vulgarly supposed, insensible to the merits of the divine poem then entering on its course of immortality. In eleven years from the date of its publication, 3000 copies had been sold; and a modern critic has expressed a doubt whether Paradise Lost,' published eleven years since, would have met with a greater demand! The fall of man was a theme suited to the serious part of the community in that age, independently of the claims of a work of genius. The Puritans had not yet wholly died out-their beatific visions were not quenched by the gross sensualism of the times. Compared with Dryden's plays, how pure, how lofty and sanctified, must have appeared the epic strains of Milton! The blank-verse of Paradise Lost' was, however, a stumblingblock to the reading public. So long a poem in this measure had not before been attempted, and ere the second edition was published, Samuel Simmons procured from Milton a short.and spirited explanation of his reasons for departing from the troublesome bondage of rhyming.' In 1671 the poet produced his Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes. The severe simplicity and the restricted plan of these poems have rendered them less popular than Comus' or 'Paradise Lost;' but they exhibit the intensity and force of Milton's genius: they were 'the ebb of a mighty tide.' The survey of Greece and Rome in Paradise Regained,' and the poet's description of the banquet in the grove, are as rich and exuberant as anything in 'Paradise Lost;' while his brief sketch of the thunder-storm in the wilderness, in the same poem, is perhaps the most strikingly dramatic and effective passage of the kind in all his works. The active and studious life of the poet was now near a close. It is pleasing to reflect that Poverty, in her worst shape, never entered his dwelling, irradiated by visions of paradise; and that, though long a sufferer from hereditary disease, his mind was calm and bright to the last. He died without a struggle on Sunday the 8th of November, 1674. By his first rash and ill-assorted marriage, Milton left three daughters, whom, it is said, he taught to read and pronounce several languages, though they only understood their native tongue. He complained that the children were undutiful and unkind' to him; and they were all living apart from their illustrious parent for some years before his death. His widow inherited a fortune of about £1500, of which she gave £100 to each of his daughters. remarkable for their grandeur and sublimity. The delineation of Satan and the fallen angels hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,' and their assembled deliberations in the infernal council, are astonishing efforts of human genius- their appearance dwarfs every other poetical conception.' At a time when the common superstition of the country presented the Spirit of Evil in the most low and debasing shapes, Milton invested him with colossal strength and majesty, with unconquerable pride and daring, with passion and remorse, sorrow and tears— the archangel ruined, and the excess of glory obscured.' Pope has censured the dialogues in heaven Milton's early poems have much of the manner as too metaphysical, and every reader feels that they of Spenser, particularly his Lycidas.' In Comus' are prolix, and, in some instances, unnecessary and there are various traces of Fletcher, Shakspeare, unbecoming. The taste of Milton for argumentative and other poets.* Single words, epithets, and images, speech and theology had overpowered his poetical he freely borrowed, but they were so combined and imagination. It has also been objected, that there is improved by his own splendid and absorbing ima- a want of human interest in the poem. This objecgination, as not to detract from his originality. tion, however, is not felt. The poet has drawn the His imperial fancy (as was said of Burke) laid all characters of Adam and Eve with such surpassing art and nature under tribute, yet never lost its art and beauty, and has invested their residence in own original brightness.' Milton's diction is pecu-Paradise with such an accumulation of charms, that liarly rich and pictorial in effect. In force and dig- our sympathy with them is strong and unbroken; nity he towers over all his contemporaries. He it accompanies them in their life of innocence, their is of no class of poets: his soul was like a star, daily employment among fruits and flowers, their and dwelt apart.' The style of Milton's verse was purity, affection, and piety, and it continues after moulded on classic models, chiefly the Greek tra the ruins of the fall. More perfect and entire symgedians; but his musical taste, his love of Italian pathy could not be excited by any living agents. literature, and the lofty and solemn cast of his own In these tender and descriptive scenes, the force and mind, gave strength and harmony to the whole. His occasional stiffness of Milton's style, and the march minor poems alone would have rendered his name of his stately sonorous verse, are tempered and immortal, but there still wanted his great epic to modulated with exquisite skill. The allegorical complete the measure of his fame and the glory of figures of Sin and Death have been found fault his country. with they will not bear exact criticism,' says Hallam, yet we do not wish them away.' They appear to us to be among the grandest of Milton's conceptions-terrific, repulsive, yet sublime, and sternly moral in their effects. Who but must enterThe battle of the angels in the sixth book is perhaps open to censure. The material machinery is out of place in heaven, and seems to violate even poetical probability. The reader is sensible how the combat must end, and wishes that the whole had been more veiled and obscure. The martial demons,' remarks Campbell, who charmed us in the shades of hell, lose some portion of their sublimity when their artillery is discharged in the daylight of heaven.' The discourses of the angel Raphael, and the vision of Michael in the two last books-leading the reader gently and slowly, as it were, from the empyrean heights down to earth-have a tranquil dignity of tone and pathos that are deeply touching and impressive. The Christian poet triumphs and predominates at the close. 'Paradise Lost,' or the fall of man, had long been familiar to Milton as a subject for poetry. He at first intended it as a drama, and two draughts of his scheme are preserved among his manuscripts in Trinity college library, Cambridge. His genius, how-tain disgust and hatred at sin thus portrayed? ever, was better adapted for an epic than a dramatic poem. His 'Samson,' though cast in a dramatic form, has little of dramatic interest or variety of character. His multifarious learning and uniform dignity of manner would have been too weighty for dialogue; whereas in the epic form, his erudition was well employed in episode and illustration. He was perhaps too profuse of learned illustration, yet there is something very striking and imposing even in his long catalogues of names and cities. They are generally sonorous and musical. The subject of Paradise Lost,' says Mr Campbell, was the origin of evil-an era in existence-an event more than all others dividing past from future time--an isthmus in the ocean of eternity. The theme was in its nature connected with everything important in the circumstances of human history; and amidst these circumstances Milton saw that the fables of Paganism were too important and poetical to be omitted. As a Christian, he was entitled wholly to neglect them; but as a poet, he chose to treat them, not as dreams of the human mind, but as the delusions of infernal existences. Thus anticipating a beautiful propriety for all classical allusions, thus connecting and reconciling the co-existence of fable and truth, and thus identifying his fallen angels with the deities of "gay religions full of pomp and gold," he yoked the heathen mythology in triumph to his subject, and clothed himself in the spoils of super stition.' The two first books of Paradise Lost' are * Dryden, in his preface to the Fables,' says, Milton has acknowledged to me that Spenser was his original.' Browne, Fletcher, Burton, and Drummond, also assisted: Milton, as has been happily remarked, was a great collector of sweets from these wild flowers. [Hymn on the Nativity.] It was the winter wild, With her great Master so to sympathise: To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; The saintly veil of maiden white to throw : 331 No war or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sov'reign lord was by. But peaceful was the night, His reign of peace upon the earth began: Smoothly the waters kiss'd, Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow; Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Thron'd in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. This must not yet be so, The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell. That with long beains the shamefac'd night array'd; The lonely mountains o'er, The helmed cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir. And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, Sonnet on his own Blindness. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, The Lars and Lemurs mourn with midnight plaint; Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue : The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, To serve therewith my Maker, and present I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent [In Anticipation of the Attack of the Royalists upon Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: Of sad Electra's poet had the power Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. He feels from Judah's land The dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. [On the Massacre of the Protestants in Piedmont.] crew. To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; [Scene from Comus.] The LADY enters. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; On May Morning. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence 333 Is now the labour of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Turn forth her silver lining on the night, Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of darkness, till it smil'd! I have oft heard [Praise of Chastity.] [From Comus.] 'Tis Chastity, my brother, Chastity; Fear'd her stern frown, and she was queen o' th' woods. What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin, Wherewith she freez'd her foes to congeal'd stone, But rigid looks of chaste austerity, And noble grace that dash'd brute violence [The Spirit's Epilogue in Comus.] To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree : Along the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund spring; The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd hours, Thither all their bounties bring; There eternal summer dwells, And west-winds, with musky wing, About the cedar 'n alleys fling Nard and Cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can shew; And drenches with Elysian dew (List, mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where young Adonis oft reposes, Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground |