So were I equall'd with them in renown
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,
And Tyresias, and Phineas—prophets old:
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid,
Tunes her nocturnal note.
There he sate, undaunted as ever, like some superb column left amid the ruins of vast cities, erect, serene, calm, and trusting to God, the Father of mankind. Though all else that he and his august compeers had yearned after and striven for had perished for the time, he had lived to fulfil that long-deferred task of poetic glory; the vision of "Paradise Lost" had been song in faith in the most majestic strains that had ever made classical the English tongue, his trust in Providence had been justified; he had served his country, and yet had not missed his immortality. The great and wise came from every quarter and from foreign lands to visit him; and the wonderful passages through which he and his nation had lived became the theme of the world's perpetual wonder.
Much has been said of the small sum received for his "Paradise Lost," and the slow recognition which it received. But the only wonder is that it sold at all, for Milton was at the moment the most hated and dreaded man alive. It could not be soon forgotten that he had stimulated Cromwell and the republicans to the destruction of the monarchy; that he defended the death of the king in his famous "Eiconoclastes," a reply to the "Icon Basiliké"—supposed to be Charles I.'s own work—and in his "Defcusio Populi" in answer to "Salmatius." But it is not a fact that "Paradise Lost" was coolly received. Long before Addison gave his laudatory critique in the "Spectator," the glory of Milton's great poem had been attested by Barrow, Andrew Marvel, Lord Anglesca, who used often to visit him in Bunhill Fields, by the duke of Buckingham, and by many other celebrated men. Sir John Denham appeared in the house of commons with a proof-sheet of "Paradise Lost " in his hand, wet from the press, and, being asked what it was, replied, "part of the noblest poem that ever was written in any language or age." The poem went into two editions during the author's life, and he corrected it for a third, which was published soon after his death. In fact, Milton's fame had to rise from under piled heaps of hatred and ignominy on account of his politics and religion, for he had attacked the church as formidably as the state in his treatise on "The Best Mode of Removing Hirelings " out of it, as well as in his book against prelacy; but it flung off all that load of prejudice, and rose to universal acknowledgment.
We need not detain ourselves with much detail of his other poetical works, which are now familiar to all readers. They consist of his early poems, including the exquisite "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso," his "Comus" and "Lycidas," a mask, and an elegy; his magnificent sonnets, his "Samson Agonistes," a sacred drama, but constructed strictly on the Grecian model. It has been often said that Milton had no genius for the drama; the "Samson" is a sufficient refutation of that opinion. It is full of dramatic power and interest; it is like some ancient piece of sculpture, unique, grand, massive, and solemn; and, indeed, had Milton devoted himself to the drama, it would have been rather in the style of Euripides than Shakespeare, for he was too lofty and earnest in his whole nature for real humour, or for much variation in mood and manner. He could never have been a comic poet, but, had he willed it, would undoubtedly have been a great tragic one. The epic character, however, prevailed in him, and decided his career.
Besides these poetical works, were his odes, including the splendid ones of the "Nativity" and the "Passion," and a great number of translations from the great poets of Greece, Rome, and Italy, original poems written in Latin and Italian, portion of the Psalms "done into metre," and "Paradise Regained." This last poem, though bearing no degree of equality to the "Paradise Lost," is yet a noble poem, and would have made a great reputation for any other man. It is clearly not so well thought out and elaborated as the "Paradise Lost," which was the dream of his youth, the love and the labour of his prime; whilst "Paradise Regained" was the chance suggestion of Thomas Elwood, his Latin reader, and closed with the temptation if Christ in the wilderness, instead of including the crucifixion and ascension, which might have given the poet a scope equal in magnificence to that of his former great epic. Of his prose works we shall speak anon.
The most popular of all poets of this period was Abraham Cowley. He is a striking example of those authors whom the critics of the time cry to the skies, and whom more discerning or less interested posterity are very willing to forget. Cowley, in his lifetime, had ten times the fame of Milton; and who now could wade through his poems, deformed by all the vapid conceits of the preceding age, and by the filth of the current period? Johnson, so unjust to many of our poets, can hardly be said to be so to Cowley. He says—"Though in his own time considered of unvalued excellence, and as having taken a flight beyond all that Went before him, Cowley's reputation could not last. His character of writing was not his own; he unhappily adopted that which was predominant. He saw a certain way to present praise; and, not sufficiently inquiring by what means the ancients have continued to delight through all the changes of human manners, he contented himself with a deciduous laurel."
He, in fact, for popularity's sake, preferred art, or rather artifice, to nature. Yet there are many beautiful thoughts, much red fancy and wit scattered through his poems; but then they are so buried in outrageous conceits, distorted and even lumbering metre, and sheer indecency, that the gems are scarcely worth picking out of the reeking dunghill. He never seems really in earnest, but always playing with his subject, and constructing gewgaws instead of raising immortal structures. In his satirical lyric called "The Chronicle," in which he runs through a list of imaginary sweethearts, and in "The Inconstant," in the poem of "The Mistress," where he finds a charm in every kind of female beauty, though probably copied from the Spanish of Garcilasso do la Vega, there is much elegant badinage, but who could now wade through pages of such doggerel as this?—
Since 'tis my doom, love's under-shrieve,
Why this reprieve?
Why doth my shc-advowson fly
Incumbency?
To sell thyself dost thou Intend,
By candle's end? &c.
