We wish that Mr. BULWER, before he published his Siamese

Twins, had performed that operation on his verse which his sur- geon performed on the boys—yiz. cut Ching from Chang, or, in other words, separated the serious from the satirical. The unna- tural union of the jeering humorist and the high-souled poet gave us a distaste for both, and subjected. us to the mortification of finding, on taking up the volume again, that we had not read the principal minor poem, called " Milton," with the proper relish of its beauties.

The poem is somewhat mysterious in the design; and it is diffi- cult to make out the nature of the shadowy being Zoe, unless she be the Leonora of the great poet's elegiacs : but one thing is clear, that it presents us with four portraits of MILTON, at different pe- riods of his life, which appear to us of remarkable power and beauty. In the first, he is a young and dreaming poet, reclining in the summer's shade—as he has represented himself; in the se- cond, he is travelling in Italy, and at Rome ; in the third, we have the stern republican, the eloquent denouncer of royal crimes, and the defender of the national honour.

"Long years have flown !—and where the Minstrel now ?— Manhood !lath set in clouds upon his brow !— Midnight is past—the solitary lamp Burns in his cell—and o'er his cheek the ray

Doth like the dim smile of a sick man play—

Pale is his lordly front, and toil and thought Have darkly there their furrow'd witness wrought : Still as he bends him to his task—the damp Wrung from the frame which fails th' unconquer'd will, Grows o'er the hueless forehead, fast, and chill, And ever with each pause, that lonely light Flares hot and scathing on his aching sight.

Alas I no more by golden palaces, By star-lit founts and Dryad-haunted trees, Shall fancy waft her Votary's willing soul. But on he journey'd through a rugged plain, Lur'd by the glory of the distant goal, And in that midnight solitude, though pain And fever wore his heart—and he could feel O'er his dim eye the dull film darkly steal, Yet did he shrink not—though the lip grew pale And the frame feeble—though the sight might fail, And the lone Night his sad companion be; Yet on exulting soul !—thy path is clear, On—on for England and for Liberty !"

This is noble; but the next stage—of blindness and age—corn- bined with high intellectual vigour, and the most glorious visions of the imagination, is a picture of that purity and sublimity that it may be said to be conctived in MILTON'S own generous vein,— and we could not say more.

" There sate an old man by that living tree Which bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside— The last dim rose which wont to blossom o'er The threshold, had that morning droop'd and died, Nipp'd by the withering air ; the neighbouring door Swung on its hinge—within you well might hear The clock's low murmur bickering on the ear— And thro' the narrow opening you might see The sand which rested on the uneven floor, The dark-oak board—the morn's untasted fare; The scatter'd volumes, and the antique chair Which—worn and homely—brought a rest at last Sweet after all life's struggles with the past. The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing Waving the thin locks from his forehead, pale He felt above the laughing sun was glowing -And heard the wild birds hymning in the gale,

e,

And scented the awakening sweets which lay Couch'd on the bosom of the virgin day- -And felt thro' all—and sigh'd not—that for him 'The earth was joyless, and the heaven was dim, 'Creation was a blank—the light a gloom, And life itself as changeless as the tomb. High—pale—still—voiceless—motionless—alone- He sate—like some wrought monumental stone— Raising his sightless balls to the blue sky ; Life's dreaming morning and its toiling day i Had sadden'd into evening—and the deep And all august repose—which broods on high What time the wearied storms have died away, Mighty in silence—like a Giant's sleep— Made calm the lifted grandeur of his brow."

After this, no one can deny that Mr. BUMPER is a poet: though we still feel no hesitation in affirming, that he has made a great mistake in the Twins; and that it is utterly impossible to feel the beauty of real poetry, in a state of such unnatural union as there exists between lofty sentiments and lusus nature exhibited at a shilling a head. Besides the " Milton," there are Seine. other minor poems of considerable beauty, more especially thalami, of which we cannot help quoting a few lines—they are perfect gossamer.

°RANA,

OR TM!: SOW. AND ITS WPM&

" Thin, shadowy, scarce divided from the light, saw a Phantom at the birth of morn : Its robe was sable, but u fleecy white Flowed eilit'ry o'er the garb of gloom: a horn It held within its hand ;—no human breath

Stirred its wan lips;—death-like, it seemed not death I

My heart lay numb within me—and the glow Of the glad life waxed faint, and ice-like crept; The pulses of my being seemed to grow One awe I—voice fled the body as it slept, But from its startled depths, the o'erlaboured Soul Spake, king-like, out—' What art Thou that would'at seem To have o'er immortality control?'

And the shape answered—not by sound= A DIIRAIlr " Mr. BULWER is a man of extraordinary genius, who puzzles more than any living author: he has a turn for every thing, and a capacity for most things : he succeeds greatly in prose fiction, and has very considerable poetical power; yet he always seems as if that which he is about, he is only doing for once, by way of trial, and as if also he were half-ashamed of the attempt, it being poor in comparison of certain ambitious designs he only hints at. He may do something very great, or he may all his life vacillate from pillar to post—from prose to poetry—from literature to politics. In the prospects or hopes of no writer do we feel more sympathy and interest.