unities of time and place observed, but dialogue is varied by choral odes; no division of act or scene is made, but the transitions are managed by the intervention of a chorus of compatriots and sympathisers. How much, in composing this piece, Milton's thoughts were occupied with the question of form, is proved by his choosing to preface it by some remarks with a bearing on that point only. He says nothing, in this preface, which could point the references to his own fate and fortunes. The prefatory remarks are apologetic, and explain why he has adopted the dramatic form, in spite of the objection of religious men to the stage, and why he has modelled his drama after the ancients and Italians. Besides reviving the more correct form of drama, Milton's intention, in Samson, is to offer one which in substance is free from the coarse buffooneries of the Restoration stage. Though taste and friendship both forbade his naming Dryden, or any living dramatist, we see of whom he is thinking, when he 'would vindicate tragedy from the small esteem, or rather infamy, which in the account of many it undergoes at this day, with other common interludes, suffering through the poet's error of intermixing comic. stuff with tragic sadness and gravity; or introducing trivial and vulgar persons; which by all judicious hath been counted absurd, and brought in without discretion, corruptly to gratify the people.' Lastly, under the story of Samson, as here presented, the poet has adumbrated his own fate-the splendid promise of his Goddedicated youth, in contrast with the tragic close in blind and forsaken age, poor, despised, and if not a prisoner himself, witness of the captivity of his friends, and the triumph of the Philistine foeall this is distinctly imaged throughout this piece. The resemblance is completed by the scene with Dalila, in which we see how bitter, even at the distance of five and twenty years, is Milton's remembrance of what he suffered in his first marriage with the daughter of a Philistine house. When we remember that the line, 6 with fear of change Perplexes monarchs,' in Paradise Lost had staggered a not unfriendly censor, we may wonder that the unmistakable allusion in Samson 'their carcasses To dogs and fowls a prey, or else captiv'd; should have passed unchallenged in 1671. MARK PATTISON. VOL. II. X AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIrable Dramatic Poet, [1630; æt. 22.] What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving : L'ALLEGRO. [1632-4; æt. 24-26.] Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 20 As he met her once a-Maying; There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And in thy right hand lead with thee While the cock, with lively din, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 76 While the landscape round it measures; Russet lawns, and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes Of herbs, and other country messes, And then in haste her bower she leaves, 17 To many a youth and many a maid, And young and old come forth to play Till the livelong day-light fail: Tells how the drudging goblin sweat When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, And crop-full out of doors he flings, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, |