Purification in the old Law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint;—
Came, vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But, O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night.

The sudden transit of the blind from a day of dreams to a night of realities, could not have been more happily or correctly described. Yet some coarse critics as ignorant of the true spirit of poetry as of the sensations of disappointment, experienced by the blind on awakening to a world of darkness, have presumed to pronounce the last line of this sonnet a conceit, and even faulty in construction. It may be interesting to those who would sometimes gladly close their eyes, and even memory, from the busy and active scenes of life, but who welcome with joy the first glad ray of morning, to know that to those who lose their sight late in life, night alone can restore a world of light and color, of bright eyes and happy familiar faces, of woods, streams, flowers, and merry sunshine. But what is more strange, we are able to recognize, in dreams, persons with whom we may have formed an acquaintance subsequent to blindness: sometimes by that peculiar expression of countenance with which fancy may have invested them, but more commonly by the familiar sound of their voices.

To those who have never seen light, (and hence are

ignorant of darkness,) the world of dreams and that of realities are the same, except that in the latter, fancy is controlled by will and reason, and the senses are awake to external impressions. In dreams, the imagination presents to our fancied touch, strange or familiar objects, bearing marks of recognition, with smooth and rough surfaces, differing in form and dimension, and sometimes frightful scenes, such as buildings on fire, assassins in pursuit of their victims, armies in deadly strife, the boisterous ocean, flying clouds, and, in short, every phenomenon of which it is possible to gain a knowledge from description.

Milton, finding himself a second time a widower, employed Dr. Paget to aid him in making choice of a third consort, who was Elizabeth Minshul, of Cheshire. By the assistance of his three daughters, who, under his instruction, had become very serviceable, he was now able to prosecute his studies with nearly as much pleasure and profit, as when he depended upon his own resources for information. His two elder daughters are said to have been able to pronounce the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, and to read in their respective originals whatever authors he wished to consult, though they understood none but their mother tongue. But notwithstanding all these advantages, no one, perhaps, ever felt his loss of sight more deeply, or described it more pathetically, than Milton. In view of the ills that followed in its train, this affliction was no doubt to him a source of bitter regret; but to the world, it will ever be regarded as a bless

ing. For had not this night closed upon his political career, shut out from his view objects of sense, and left his great soul to concentrate its powers in sublime contemplation, and to find utterance only in glowing images of thought, "Paradise Lost," would never have been written. Not that darkness is likely to produce new mental phenomena, or favor a more extended research into physical sciences; but that the absence of sight does aid reflection, concentration, and the imagination, few will deny.

Milton, it is true, like Homer, had collected much of his material of thought, before the loss of his sight. He had visited the classic grounds of Italy, and had seen nature robed in her brightest and richest attire. While a student of Christ's College, he composed many Latin poems, and is said to have been the first Englishman who wrote Latin verse with classical elegance. His "Mask of Comus," "L'Allegro," and "Penseroso," bear the unmistakable impress of true genius; and would have been sufficient to render his name immortal, had he left no other monuments of his greatness. But as stars fade at the approach of morning light, so these recede before the noonday splendor of "Paradise Lost ;" an epic poem only inferior to the

Iliad," in force and heroic fire, and not in profound contemplation. The description of Satan's escape from his dungeon, and ascent through the realm of chaos, up to light, in the second book of this poem, is perhaps one of the loftiest conceptions that ever

sprang from the human intellect. And we are fully persuaded, that, had not the author been surrounded by the hollow darkness which he here describes; and wholly shut in with self and thought, while everduring night kept sentinel without, this scene could never have been rendered so complete. The view presented to Satan, sin and death, on the opening of the infernal gates, set forth in the following, in point of sublimity is certainly without a parallel:

Before their eyes in sudden view appear
The secrets of the hoary deep; a dark

Illimitable ocean, without bound,

Without dimension, where length, breadth, and height,
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night

And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold

Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise

Of endless wars, and by confusion stand:

For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce,
Strive here for mast'ry, and to battle bring

Their embryon atoms; they around the flag
Of each his faction, in their several clans,
Light-arm'd or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow,
Swarm populous, unnumber'd as the sands
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil,

Levied to side with warring winds, and poise

Their lighter wings. To whom these most adhere,
He rules a moment; Chaos umpire sits,

And by decision more embroils the fray,

By which he reigns:

Chance governs all.

next him, high arbiter,

Into this wild abyss,

(The womb of nature, and perhaps her gravc,)
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
But all these in their pregnant causes mix'd
Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,
(Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain

His dark materials to create more worlds ;)

Into this wild abyss the wary fiend

Stood on the brink of hell, and look'd a while

Pondering his voyage.

After much difficulty this divine poem was licensed for the press, and published first at London, in 1667. To show how little the age in which Milton lived was worthy of so great a genius, we need only mention that on the completion of this great work, the poet could sell the copy for no more than fifteen pounds, the payment of which depended upon the sale of three large editions; and his widow afterwards sold her claims for eight pounds. Three years after the publication of "Paradise Lost," he published "Samson Agonistes," a tragedy in the purest style of the Greek Drama; and "Paradise Regained," the subject of which is said to have been suggested by the following circumstance: Elwood, a Quaker, who had read "Paradise Lost," in manuscript, on returning it, put this quaint interrogation: "What hast thou to say to Paradise Found?"

We have only farther to mention that, worn out by the gout, our poet paid the debt of nature in 1674, in his sixty-sixth year.

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