by the tributary streams that at frequent intervals flow 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 doubtlessly unfavorable to Milton, as it regards general effectiveness. Ministers of Prudence defend us from less reverently contemplating the edifice of a wise master-builder, because of our inability to construe all its artistical points; and in the spacious arena of the Epic, as in a vast bazaar -here crescent, there meandering-a Gleaner of gems from many climes, a Pearl-diver from his very youth, might well dazzle weak eyes and confuse feeble faculties, when-his merchandise disposed in due array he should invite the curious to inspect its gorgeous profusion. But then, the magically-moving naïveté of that greater Pet of Nature's, whom she cradled by "lucid Avon," tossed in infancy and juvenescence like a large-armed, honest, doating nurse whose fondlings are of terrific fervor; who taught the

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

chiel to take notes in strange situations for a darling of hers, and, when he attained his prime, so dowered him, that the scarce second Scion of whom we have discoursed, avers, in homage to his Senior, that kings, for a tomb like “my Shakspeare's," might long to die. 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

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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 crystallised, and flowed in irishues, 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

THE APPROACH OF NIGHT IN EDEN.

To tranquillise the 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 radiance drest,
Whose glory gilds his couch of rest,
He sunk within the crimsoned West.

And now, the ruddy day-beams fleetly failing,
Night falls on Eden as a spirit's wing,
Fresh fragrance all th' odorous bowers exhaling,
Inspiring which their quires forget to sing:

The shadow spreads-a soft narcotic shield-
And flowers breathe, in downy slumber sealed ;-
Fair children all, yet one supremely sweet,

With whom, on wakening from its first repose, An amorous Sunbeam, raptured, chanced to meet, And kissed the blushing flowret to a Rose.

And streamlets rilled a softer tune

As o'er their ripples shed the Moon

A paler, scarce less lucid ray,

Than that which burnished them by day;
And while each bliss-o'erburdened sense
Was hushed in quietude intense,

There issued from a viewless clime,

Such strains as when, in quires sublime,·
To gushing harps, the ardent hymn
Bursts from the bright-eyed cherubim ;
While high above and from afar

Streamed melody from many a star:-
O, had those stars been Luna's daughters,
They might have paused in their career-
Perchance have left their stellar sphere-
To linger over Eden's waters,

Where, mirrored, shone each pearly gem
That glistened in Night's diadem,
Each lovely in the bright emblazoned sky
As Vestal fair to Beauty's crown aspiring,

Seen by the light of her own jetty eye,

Ere dimmed by tears-or too devout admiring.