MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS.

DIFFERENT persons have very different notions of poetry. Some think its essential quality is verse : if the lines scan and rhyme, the writer is a poet. Others, with a kindred ignorance but a more musical ear, demand sonorousness, such as Dulness, in the Duuciad, bestowed on the plagiarist MORE " And empty words she gave, and sounding strain."

A third class require imagery : if the planets, the elements, the grander forms of earth, and the beauties of vegetation are introduced, no matter for the aptness, the author is extolled. A fourth Set of readers make what they call imagination (but which is really fancy) the test of the poet. With them, mere visionary creations of the brain constitute poetry. And, in combination with all the qualities we have mentioned, it undoubtedly does ; but not of

• the highest kind, unless we prefer SPENSER IO SIIARSPERE, or K.EATs to POPE.

What then is poetry ? JOHNSON, on one occasion, declared that "to circumscribe poetry by a definition, would only show the narrowness of the definer but in commencing his elaborate criticism on Paradise Lost, he pronounces that "Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason." Few who have attentively considered the subject will deny that this is a true description,—or rather contains the germs of truth ; for it is only when we come to understand what poetry is that we comprehend the definition in its fulness. Will it render an abstruse subject more popularly intelligible, to say that poetry is the imaginative essence of the real? Reality is necessary in poetry ; for we are so constituted, that though what never existed may please, it pleases only in proportion as it is based on reality, and when it has been received as real by those to whom it was first addressed. Invention, or creation, in the vulgar idea of something quite new, will never form an enduring poem. truth alone permanently pleases in art ; and nothing is true, for human purposes, but the creation submitted to our experience. The gods of classical mythology, the angels of MILTON, are merely sublimated mortals. The superstitions which survive their belief are indebted for vitality to the same principle : the thiries, witches, and ghosts of the European world in the middle ages, had their prototype in mortality, beautified, degraded, or etherialized, by imagination and fear. When the inspired writers introduce the Deity, they attribute to him some of the qualities of humanity : even the Saviour appeared on the earth as a mortal, for (independent of the theological arguments for this) mankind could by no other way have comprehended his existence, or received his doctrines. How dreamy and uninteresting, or interesting only as being ludicrous, religion itself becomes, when the reality of nature is disregarded, may be seen in the mystical speculations of the most gifted theologians, or in Paradise Lost, where "God the Father turns a schooldivine."

The essence of the real is requisite in poetry: for any attempt to reproduce by art the whole of any thing, would be impossible ; and if it could be done, would be as revolting as a verbatim report, in which, though every word might be taken down, the life and the action of the speaker, with all the concomitants, must be absent. The true artist therefore selects those traits which give the character of the thing he would imitate ; rijecting all that is unessential or commonplace. It is this quality that seems miraculous to the untaught, when a dash of the pen or a few strokes of the percil give force and spirit to what was previously tune and unattractive.

Imagination also is requisite, not merely to animate and colour, but to discern those things in nature which have the elements of poetry ; for we need not saxthat many things may he real, or contain the essence of a subject, without being poetical. Physical misery is real enough ; a neat judgment in law, or a physician's description of a case, contains the essential points of the subject matter ; yet neither makes any approach to poetry.

But though reality, imagination, and the essences of things,

are requisite for poetry, they will not constitute a poem, at least without a more exact limitation of their Sense. Poetry—or, to use the proper, if hacknied expression, "poetical passages "—may be found hi historians, orators, divines, and so forth : poetry is spoken by many persons, fully possessed with their subjects, and under high excitement.* We do not, however, call LIVE it pout, or his history a poem—on the simple principle that a fragment is not a whole. To produce this whole is the business of the artist ; and it can only be obtained by a perfect consentaneousness throughout his piece, both as regards the general nature of his subjects and the peculiar branch of his art, whether epic, dramatic, pastoral, or what not. This rule of fitness and consistency is applicable to the slightest details, but it is inure especially impor • It is these circumstances—sufficient knowledge and high excitement, Trbich seem to constitute inspiration.

tant in the prominent features of his pieces—as scenery in descriptive poetry ; in epic, narrative, scenery, and persons; in dramatic, action and character. It was not to exhibit his exquisite perception that HORACE dwells so long (105, 178) upon the strictneas with which the poet must observe the proprieties of nation, Ns. tory, and the ages of men, but because failure there is fatal. " Ant dormitabo sat ridebo."

The reader will now understand our meaning when we say that Mr. MUMAN possesses a poetical mind, and has written very many poetical passages, but, excepting Fazio and a few small deer, he has not produced either poems or dramas,—neither observing the nature of his subjects nor the nature of his art.

Besides Fazio, which, though with much claptrap, some namby. pambv, some improbability in the conduct of the story, and too literal an imitation of the style of the older writers, is rapid, touch. ing, and full of business, Mr. MILMAN has written an epic and four dramas. Of these, it strikes us that Anne Boleyn is the best, and the Fall of Jerusalem the worst. Without, however, offering this as more than an opinion, or attempting (what our space forbids) any elaborate criticism on the whole of the poems in this complete edition, we will support the judgments we have passed upon Mr. Minsux by a few instances. The Fall of Jerusalem, as treated by him, is not dramatic, but narrative, for the interest hinges upon an event, and not upon per. sons or actions : the form of the drama therefore was chosen mju. diciously. There are Titus and his officers, the High Priest of the Jews, and the leaders of the Jewish factions, together with a Chris. tian, and the converted daughter of a Jew enthusiast. But we care little about their fate. The destruction of the city, and the stupendous miseries and alleged prodigies by which it was accompanied, are essentially the prominent features of the drama; but being interwoven, as a sort of double plot, with the fortunes of individuals, each interferes with the other, instead of relieving it. So that the structure of the poem is radically defective, and poetical art violated in the plan itself.

The execution is equally remote from true poesy. It is not men and women who speak, but the Professor of Poetry at Oxford. The speeches are too long and too artificial, not merely for the drama, but for persons in the position of the characters. There is no discrimination of national peculiarities—Romans, Jews, Christians, priests, soldiers and fanatics, talk pretty much alike ; the differences being in the phrases and sentiments, not in the character of their speech. To prove all these assertions by the induction of various passages, would be a long task, but we will instance a single scene.

The purpose of the opening is to show Titus engaged in a mental conflict between his wish to save Jerusalem and some.mys

terious impulse that urges him on to destroy it. This brief topic, most fitted perhaps for soliloquy, is effected by a long dialogue between Titus and his officers ; in which they say much that is impertinent, because it must be well known to each other, and describe minutely things that are needless, because they are before their eyes. Neither have they any Roman grandeur, still less any military brevity. This is the style ot"Fitus,—more like a rhetorical officer of Volunteers haranguing at a sham fight, than a stern commander of the ancient LegioTons. .rts.

n Advance the eagles, Cans MMus, Even to the walls of this rebellious city. What shall our bird of conquest, that bath flown

Over the world, and built her nest of glory

Even in the palace-tops of proudest kings, 'What ! shall she cheek and pause here in her cirek, Her centre of dominion By the gods,

It is a treason to all-eonquering Horne, That thus our battled legions stand at bay Before this hemned and flunishing Jerusalem. Instead of obeying orders in silence, Caius Placidus repays his commander in kind, and speaks a " Memorial of his Services" off hand, in a style which does credit to his rhetoric. tnus.

" Son of Vespasian! I have been a soldier, Till the helm bath worn mine aged temples bare. Battles have been familiar to mine eyes As is the sunlight, and the angry Mars

Wears not a terror to appal the souls

Of constant men but I have fronted it.

I have seen the painted Britain sweep to battle

On his scythed ear, mid, when lie fell, he fell

As one that honoured death by nobly dying. And I have been where flying Parthians showered

Their arrows, making The pursuer cheek His fierce steed with the sudden grasp of death.

But war like this, so frantic and so desperate, Man nc'er beheld. Oar swoixis are blunt with slaying,

And yet, as though tine earth cast up again

Souls discontented with a single death,

They grow beneath the slaughter. Neither battle, Nor flunine, nor lice withering pestilence,

Subdues these.prodigals of brood : by day They' cast then' lives upon our swords ; by night

They turn their civil weapons on themselves,

Even till insatiate war shrinks to behold

The hideous consummation.

Surely this approaches the ridebo of HorrAcc. There are several choruses scattered through the drama, but they have no musical flow : they are not adapted to the structure of our language, in Mr. MiLstAses hands, but are imitations of MILTON and the ancients. They are also too long ; no breath could last them Out; or if lungs could be found, patience could not. These are the dormitabo.

There are, of course, better things in the Fall of Jerusalem, and elsewhere, or we should not have taken this trouble with Mr. Mir.mAx's poetical character. There is some approach to dramatic interest in the piece we are discussing, in the exit and death of the False Prophet ; the prodigies attending the destruction of the city, though inartificially introduced, are forcibly told; and there7are many passages of power, with a sort of fine beauty, which might be considered highly poetical if appearing as fragments from the Oxford Professor, not as speeches from characters in a drama.

We pass to Anne Boleyn°. Whether the subject is well adopted to a drama, it is not the function of criticism to decide a priori. This much it certainly has—a single story, human interests, striking characters, and a heroine, not wholly faultless, but with a punishment out of all proportion to her offence—that punishment being aggravated to the reader by her youth, her beauty, and the contrast of her lofty station. Nor is Mr. MILMAN'S drama without good scenes and germs of dramatic interest. Henry is neatly drawn, though he is not so right royal as SILIK.SPERE'S bluff harry; and Anne is well conceived, though she would be all the better for a touch of levity. But" no man forgets his original trade : the rights of nations and of kings sink into questions of grammar if grammarians discuss them." It is the same with clergymen when they undertake similar subjects— the cloth is always uppermost. The true interest, as the great difficulty, lies with Henry and Anne; but the former is scarcely seen,

and the latter is subordinate to Gardiner and a certain Angelo Carraffa. This man is an Italian, a Jesuit, and a fanatic, who has devoted himself to the advancement of the Catholic religion, and has lulled his conscience into the belief that any thing, however base or criminal, is a merit if done to advance the glory of the Ilomish Church. The character is designed to display the spirit of Jesuitism ; but it is a mere abstraction of improbable villany, with a virtuous object. And though moving all and ruling all, amongst courts and councils, Angelo has no recognized status ; and what is more, his plans are so gross that they must have been seen through by any one. This is the straits in which he holds forth to the selfish, time-serving, unprincipled Gardiner, who is suspicious of him. The passage, however, is powerful as a description of what fanaticism has effected (though not by one man) : we only object to its want of fitness. Truth, to seem true, must be in its true place.

ANGELO.

"While Stephen Gardiner Must sink into the baser rank. Oh fear not, Nor jealously mistrust me, lest I cross Thy upward path. I have forsworn the world, Not with the formal oaths that burst like flax, But those that chain the soul with triple iron. Earth hath no guerdon I may covet, none 1 inay enjoy. Thou, Stephen Gardiner Shalt rule submissive prelates, peers, anti kings, Loftiest in station, as m mind the mightiest ; And a perpetual noon ofgolden power Shall blaze around the lordly mitred state. I'm girt for other journiess at that hour, When all but crowned the righteous work, this isle Half bowed again to the Holy See, I go Far in some savage land unknown, remote From civilized or reasonable life, From letters, arts—where wild men howl around Their hlood-stained altsrs—to uplift th' unknown Enawful crucifix : I go to pine With famine, waste with slow disease, the loathing And scorn of men. And when thy race is run, Thou, Winchester, in marble cemetery, Where thy cathedral roof, like sonic rich grove, Spreads o'er, ansi all the walls with 'seutelieons blaze, Sisalt lie; while anthem'd choirs and pealing organs, And incense clouds, and a bright heaven of lamps, Shall solemnize thy gorgeous obsequies. O'er my unsepulehred and bouseless hones, Cast on the barren beach of the salt sea, Or arid desert, where the vulture daps Iler dreary wings, shall never wandering priest Or bid his beads or say one passing prayer. Thy memory shall live in this hind's records While the sea girds the isle : but mine shall perish As utterly as sonic base beggar's child. That indiaptized drops like abortive fruit Into unhallowed grave."

The edition is most tastefully got up ; and a few new notices are occasionally prefixed. We extract a part of the notice to Fazio, fix its literary and biographical interest.

" This play was written while I was at Oxford, and appeared soon after I had taken my first degree. It found its way upon the stage without my interference, and indeed without my consent being in any single instance solicited. It has retained its place there, partly, perhaps, from the interest of the story, and partly front the opportunity which it adonis for the display of splendid female acting. Its first appearance, I believe, was at the Surrey Theatre, where it was brought forward under the noose of "r he Dalian Wife ; ' and it had been acted sonte time heliwe I was aware that the piece of that name was my work. That theatre was then, I believe, only licensed for operatic performances; but the company contrived to elude this restriction, by performing all kinds of dramas with what they called a musical accompaniment. Every now and then the string of a solitorv violin was heard, while the actors went on in their parts without the slightest 'regard to the said accompaniment, and so represented any regular drama which might suit their purpose. It was in this manner that I first saw the performance of' Fazio; but I remember that the actress who personated Biancts was by no means deficient in rover, and only wanted a better audience to improve her taste. ' Fazio ' was afterwards acted with complete success at Bath ; and this, I believe, inclined the managers of Covent Garden to bring it forward on the London stage. This was done without even the cornMon courtesy of giving me notice of their intention. The first intisrmation Which I received on the subject, was the request of Mr. C. Kemble, with whom I was then but slightly acquainted, through my intimate friend, his gifted sis ter, Mrs. Siddons, to permit him to read the part of Fazio to me. * • * The effect produced by Miss O'Neil's admirable representation of Bianca proved, no doubt, to her, that she had been mistaken in her unfavourable opinion of the dramatic capabilities of the play; for it was to her private opinion that the original preface alluded."