bling, dare to adjudge it to Shakespeare, not only in preference to Milton, but to Homer.

*

But here the puissant Pope is in arms against me, as well as all the classical prejudices of every scholar, from Longinus down to the pedantic schoolmaster, "who mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder," and neglects the noble fire, pregnant thought, and simple majesty of the poet, whilst his cold head traces his verses through grammar, case, and gender. But perhaps I am partial; and, as Pope himself allows Shakespeare's superior skill in nature, his most ardent admirer may well remit his zeal, without vainly endeavouring to assert his pre-eminence in fancy above the Grecian bard, the venerable "father of verse."

With respect to Milton; the universal and stupendous greatness, the awful sublimity of the subject of Paradise Lost, seem at first sight to fix the wavering balance in his favour. But let us look with the naked unbiassed eye of truth and justice, and it will be found that this greatness, this sublimity in the subject, acts as a magnifying glass, which falsely enlarges the merit of the per

* Vide Pope's preface to his translation of the Iliad, more particularly his own comparison between Homer and the other poets.

formance. This is an observation which I am surprised has never occurred to his commentators and critics: one even of mean talents, when employing them in the description of things vast, splendid, and uncommon, will receive from them a lustre and importance which may easily deceive the eye, as the emanation of intrinsic excellence. When we take up Milton's book, the revolutions of heaven and of hell-the tremendous majesty of Omnipotence the creation of the world-the formation of man-his state of bliss and subsequent fall, pass in awful review before our eyes, as objects of astonishing and boundless grandeur and magnitude; objects over which religion has thrown the hue of fearful veneration, and which custom has taught us to reverence. And thus are

we prepared to look up to him with admiration and esteem, whether sanctioned or not by the assent of justice. Though his performance is unquestionably equal to his subject, and though he shines with holy and transcendent magnificence, yet does he, in some places, sink below other poets as far as he at other times rises great and glorious above them. Unlike theirs, his flights of imagination are not temperate and even; but are of that kind which dazzles and overpowers you. His brightness (and it is a heavenly and a holy bright

ness) is as the splendour of a comet, which flames on the brow of night, and then vanishes, leaving the beholder to gaze on the grandeur which lightened from it, even though the heaven which it has left is shrouded in darkness.

Far be it from me to try and depreciate the bard of heaven. None can more truly admirenone can more deeply feel the beauty and the majesty of his song. Angels touched his harp, and why should it not be beautiful. Inspiration breathed through its tones, and why should it not be divine! With an unawed and a giant step he strides over the grovellers that bow and crouch to him, and sits throned and towering amid the godlike few whom Poesy bows to as its only "triumvirate."

I write this for the purpose of comparison. Under this idea, my warmth will be allowed a little latitude.

Let it then be remembered, that few, if any, have possessed such profound and extensive learning as Milton. He not only was an accomplished proficient in the Greek and Latin languages, but also perfectly understood the Hebrew, Syriac, and Chaldean, and most of the modern languages of Europe. So that his mind was a vast repository of the knowledge of all ages and

nations; and it would be a vain and idle argument to pretend that he borrowed nought from thence, to enrich his writings. A slight acquaintance

with them will evince the contrary.

But Shakespeare was indebted to none. His powerful mind neither sought for, nor required the assistance of any. Milton himself bestows on him the title of "Fancy's child." The expression is not, one of Fancy's children-but as if he alone were the sole and the legitimate offspring of that lovely goddess.

The epithet is in that beautiful poem, "L'Allegro," which, had he written nothing else, would have raised his name above the sons of men.

"Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warbled his native wood-notes wild."

He was Fancy's child indeed. It was she who gave to his infant fingers that harp which he awoke with that wild melody which chains the listening soul in enraptured attention. His was the strength, and the power, and the beauty, and the might. His was the livingness which could impart to thought a form and size to things inanimate, existence to things mortal, immortality. His was the power-the unbounded and mighty power (that power which was like

the creative hand when it brooded over chaos) to call beings when he willed, and forms when he chose!

Criticism is disarmed when it looks to his fancy. However reprehensible he may sometimes be in his representations of nature, he in this particular soars above the most scrutinizing malignity of the critic. Its flame ever burns with a pure, steady, fand vigorous fervour. As the sun's evening ray mild but beautiful, it shines in the "Midsummer's Night's Dream." As his noontide brightness, it glows in the " Tempest," and as his lowering front looking through the storm's blackening clouds, it glares with terrible splendour in " Macbeth."

Our heaven-inspired bard was lord of all the passions which agitate the human breast. Nature herself delegated to him the sceptre of their command, and with an uncontrolled and immediate force he sends them forth to excite, to sooth, to draw the tear of sympathy, or raise the fire of vengeance. When guilt, beneath the shades of night gives utterance to the pangs of remorsewhen the strains of innocence, of mirth, of wit, and humour strike on the heart-when horror stalks abroad and sheds on the threatening gloom