chief attraction of the poem is the lines where the poet, touched by his old passion, describes Rome and Athens, their architecture, arts, and literature in the undying and famous phrases: Rome, "With towers and temples proudly elevate The Satan of this poem is a far different figure from the magnificent apostate angel of the first epic, who thwarted the design of the Most High, and chose to rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven, who claimed the empire of negation-" Evil, be thou my Good." He now appears as an aged man in rural weeds," such as might seek stray fagots for his fire upon some winter's day. Yet no words spoken by the rebel Archangel in his pride are more thrilling than those which he now utters, when his disguise is penetrated by Christ, and he is known for what he is "'Tis true, I am that Spirit unfortunate." Satan, now the subtle disputant, sets forth this world's glories, the work of men's hands, the Pagan victories in art, the triumphs of civilisation, the sky-searching philosophies against the simple virtues, the quiet obedience of the Christian life. The eternal antithesis emerges between the intellectual and the religious outlook. To the wisdom of this world-how often it has been said-Christianity seems to oppose but foolishness, to its wealth but poverty, to its culture but childish ignorance. In the debate between Christ and Satan Milton desires us to feel the majesty of the spiritual things. It is not indeed clear that he adopts the extreme Christian view that self-sacrifice and self-renunciation are of the essence of religion, that he would have placed in stern opposition the ideals of the Christian and the Pagan world. He may have thought it possible to add to the virtues found in the best men of pre-Christian times the virtues of the Christian saint. Paradise Regained makes no attempt to depress the intellectual while it exalts the moral and spiritual life. Whether compromise be possible, whether Christianity does not require that men shall resolutely turn their backs upon wealth and fame and learning and national pride, counting this world well lost for the sake of a better, belongs to another inquiry than ours. The modern age has taken, as one might say, the sting out of Christianity by accommodating the creed to its life rather than its life to the creed, and continues to call itself Christian. Perhaps Milton was himself partly conscious that he stood between incompatibles; he seems to approach as near hesitation as was possible to his unhesitating mind. Perhaps, again, he had more sympathy with the militant than the self-effacing qualities, as he was more of a soldier than a quietist. Into his study at least of the person and ideals of Christ in Paradise Regained he imparts something hardly to be found in the Gospels. As in many a Renaissance picture, the figure of Christ seems to be painted upon a classical background and touched with something of a philosopher's air and mien. Apart from its poetry, poetry in a deliberately subdued key, this poem is of interest as the first attempt, outside the Scripture narrative, to draw the portrait of the Founder of Christianity. Hardly the Gospel portrait, hardly Christ as preached in the evangelical churches, Milton's, as might have been expected, is none the less a majestic conception. What a contrast is presented between the hero of the first and of the second epic, the great militant figure of Paradise Lost, who, within sight of Eden, hurled his superb defiance at the noonday sun, and that of Christ, who rising superior to all temptations in complete self-mastery, retains the simplicity and humility of childhood, and when the trial is over, without shadow of self-gratulation or word of triumph, turns back to the life of every day "He, unobserv'd, Home to his mother's house private returned." There is no one with whom to compare this poet in our literature. Though a student of Chaucer and Shakespeare, he is far removed from their standpoint of cheerful acquiescence in a strangely assorted, multi-coloured patch-work world, where fools and knaves jostle the good and great. Nor though he called himself a disciple of Spenser did he share that dreaming poet's sweet reflective mood, lost in the tangled woods of his own fairyland. And if none preceded who were like him, none followed. Not in Dryden or Pope, not in Burns or Shelley, not in Wordsworth or Tennyson is heard again that clarion note of resolution and certitude, of fortitude and faith. "The large utterance of the early gods" died with him and cannot be revived. Though without humour-the most repelling of defects—he retained his hold upon generations to whom humour was the breath of life; his intense religious fervour could not altogether discourage the rationalists, nor his radicalism wholly estrange the Tories. Addison devoted number after number of a society journal to an appreciation of Paradise Lost; Johnson, who hated Whig dogs, growled a full confession of his greatness; Landor, averse to all theology and particularly to Milton's, after a long and searching criticism of his faults, remarks to Southey, "Are we not somewhat like two little beggar boys, who forgetting that they are in tatters, sit noticing a few stains and rents in their father's raiment?" Dryden, the Restoration playwright, places him above both Homer and Virgil, Shelley ranks him third among the poets of the world. Yet the Romantics have triumphed, and other qualities than his are the reigning qualities of art. Who now among the poets puts himself to school with Milton? To-day we have with us the ritual of the soul and its sorrows-" the dialogue of the mind with itself has commenced "; we have the wistful speculation, the vague desire, the frail wayward charm, the delicate nuance, the dim half-tones, "an exquisite faintness, une fadeur exquise." To the poésie intime they belong and you prefer them, le naïf, the strange, the subtle; you prefer the enchanted reverie. You object that the beauty of Paradise Lost is outward, not shy, modest, sheltered, elusive, pensive. There is no answer to the objection. What you say, however, is true also of the Parthenon. CHAPTER XI HEROIC POETRY IN THE SEVENTEENTH AND EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES THE history of heroic poetry in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, if we except Milton-a notable exception, indeed--is a chronicle of failure. So that in speaking of it one may be said to deal in the main with three classes of poems-those that never lived, those now dead, and those more dead than alive. Of these we may name as seventeenth-century examples, in the first class Cowley's Davideis, in the second Davenant's Gondibert, in the third Chamberlayne's Pharonnida. Cowley's, like Waller's, which also once stood high, is a vanished reputation. At one time, however, his shorter poems were admired, and a hundred years after his death Cowley still remained of sufficient importance for Johnson to write of him at length and with respect in one of the best, if not the best, of his "Lives.” But his fame was not derived from his epic. "Whatever is said of Cowley," remarks Johnson, "is meant of his other works. Of the Davideis no mention is made; it never appears in books, nor emerges in conversation. By the Spectator it has been once quoted; by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden in Mack Flecknoe, it has once been imitated; nor do I recollect much other notice from its publication till now, in the whole succession of English literature." The Davideis, a sacred poem of the Troubles of David, is practically destitute of any kind of interest. A very painstaking reader may undoubtedly discover in it some good lines, and even a few tolerable passages, but, unless he be very amiable, will probably feel himself insufficiently rewarded for his previous toils. The thought that the Davideis was left unfinished has never been the cause of pain. The pedestrian portions of the narrative are without offence, but when Cowley attempts sublimity his unfitness for an epic undertaking is startlingly apparent. Here, for example, is how he describes Satan's disappointment with Saul "He trusted much in Saul, and rag'd and griev'd His eyes dart forth red flames, which scare the Night, With that with his long tail he lash'd his breast, When he recalls the destruction of Pharaoh and his Egyptians he presents us with this picture "In his gilt chariots ainaz'd fishes sat, And grew with corpse of wretched princes fat: "Cowley was not of God, and so he could not stand," said Rochester. Both Davenant and Chamberlayne have stronger claims upon 1 With the Davideis the curious may compare Prior's Solomon, in which the hero's thoughts not his acts are narrated by himself. P |