Him thus ascending the fork'd light'ning smites
With sidelong volley, whilst loud thunders rock
Heav'n's echoing vault, when all at once, behold !
Caught in the stream of an impetuous gust
High in mid-air, swift on the level wing
Northward he shoots, and like a comet leaves
Long fiery track behind, speeding his course
Straight to the realms of Chaos and old Night,
Hell-bound, and to Tartarean darkness doom'd.

Mammon shocked at the dreadful fate of his chieftain, and trembling for himself, escapes under covert of the night.

It will immediately be perceived, that for the major part of this book we are indebted to the genius and enthusiasm of the poet, who, in a bold and vigorous excursion into the regions of imagination, has presented us with a picture of the most transcendent sublimity, and which has nothing to fear from a comparison with the productions of his master and model. The interviews between Gabriel and Satan, and Mammon and the arch fiend, are two of the best wrought scenes in the compass of poetry; and no prejudice or spleen, be they ever so malignant, can hope to blast the laurels due to their conception.

NUMBER XXI.

-Eternal wrath

Burnt after him to the bottomless pit.

MILTON.

MUCH criticism has been bestowed on the question, whether an epic poet should indulge in description of, or reflections on, his own person or circumstances. The severer writers, from the example of Homer and Virgil, have decided in the negative; but it is evident Milton thought otherwise, and in the opening of his third book, and in strains the most pathetic and sublime, laments his deprivation of sight. Several other passages of a similar kind are interspersed through the Paradise Lost; and no person of taste and feeling would exchange these delightful morsels for the most elaborate and subtile criticism that human ingenuity could produce. Nor does there seem any just

reason why an epic poet should not be permitted occasionally to digress on subjects endeared to him by suffering and association. The judgment of our immortal bard has been generally allowed to have been keen and accurate, and the result of his attempt is such that he "may with propriety be considered as a model in this respect to all future English poets, and as having given additional grace and interest to the fabrics of antiquity.*

Mr. Cumberland has therefore judiciously copied his learned predecessor in this respect, and at the commencement of the fifth book, after an invocation to the Evangelists, thus beautifully alludes to himself:

Musing my pious theme, as fits a bard
Far onward in the wintry track of age,

I shun the Muses' haunts, nor dalliance hold
With fancy by the way, but travel on

My mournful road, a pilgrim gray with years;
One that finds little favour with the world,

*Camöens, the author of the Lusiad, preceded Milton in the adoption of this plan, and with the happiest effect; the most pathetic passages in his poem being those, which dwell upon his own severe sufferings, and the unparalleled ill treatment and ingratitude he experienced from his native country.

Yet thankful for its least benevolence,

And patient of its taunts; for never yet
Lur'd I the popular ear with gibing tales,
Or sacrific'd the modesty of song,
Harping lewd madrigals at drunken feasts
To make the vulgar sport, and win their shout.
Me rather the still voice delights, the praise
Whisper'd, not publish'd by Fame's braying trump:
Be thou my herald, Nature: Let me please,
The sacred few, let my remembrance live
Embosom'd by the virtuous and the wise;

Make me, O Heav'n! by those, who love thee, lov'd:
So when the widow's and the children's tears
Shall sprinkle the cold dust, in which I sleep
Pompless, and from a scornful world withdrawn,
The laurel, which its malice rent, shall shoot
So water'd into life, and mantling throw
Its verdant honours o'er my grassy tomb.

Here in mid-way of my unfinish'd course,
Doubtful of future time, whilst now I pause
To fetch new breath and trim my waning lamp,
Fountain of Life, if I have still ador'd
Thy mercy, and remember'd Thee with awe
Ev'n in my mirth, in the gay prime of youth-
So conscience witnesses, the mental scribe
That registers my errors, quits me here-
Propitious Power, support me! and if death,
Near at the farthest, meditates the blow
To cut me short in my prevented task,
Spare me a little, and put by the stroke,

Till I recount his overthrow, and hail

Thy Son victorious rising from the grave.

This exquisite digression, pregnant with the most plaintive imagery and sentiment, is a still further proof, if any were wanting, that the licence which Milton took, and which Mr. Cumberland has thus followed, is productive of the most pleasing effect, and unaccompanied with the smallest violence to the narrative, which is immediately resumed in a natural and easy manner.

The trial and condemnation of Christ, the subjects of the fifth book, now take place, but as Scripture is here again closely adhered to, it will not be necessary to offer any extracts. It will be sufficient, probably, to observe that the characters of Christ, Caiphas, Pilate, Peter, and Herod, are well preserved, and that the sorrow and contrition of the disciple, his soliloquy and supplication for forgiveness, are drawn with great feeling and much felicity of language.

In the beginning of the sixth book, which is allotted to the Crucifixion, Judas mingles