the death of Adonis, who was killed by a wild boar in the mountains out of which this stream rises. Something like this we saw actually come to pass; for the water was stained to a surprising redness; and, as we observed in travelling, had discoloured the sea a great way into a reddish hue, occasioned doubtless by a sort of minium or red earth washed into the river by the violence of the rain, and not by any stain from Adonis' blood."

The character of Mammon, and the description of the Pandæmonium, are full of beauties.

There are several other strokes in the first book wonderfully poetical, and instances of that sublime genius so peculiar to the author. Such is the description of Azazel's stature, and the infernal standard which he unfurls, as also of that ghastly light by which the fiends appear to one another in their place of torments:

'The seat of desolation, void of light,

Save what the glimm'ring of those livid flames Casts pale and dreadful.'

The shout of the whole host of fallen angels when drawn up in battle array:

:

'The universal host up sent A shout that tore hell's concave; and, beyond, Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.'

The review which the leader makes of his infernal army :

'He through the armed files Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse The whole battalion views, their order due, Their visages and stature as of gods,

Their number last he sums; and now his heart

Distends with pride, and hard'ning in his strength Glories.'

The flash of light which appeared upon the drawing of their swords:

'He spake; and to confirm his words out flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze
Far round illumined hell.'

The sudden production of the Pandemonium:-
'Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge
Rose like an exhalation, with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet.'
The artificial illuminations made in it :-
'From the arched roof,

Pendent by subtle magic, many a row
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light

As from a sky.'

There are also several noble similes and allusions in the first book of Paradise Lost. And here I must observe that when Milton alludes either to things or persons, he never quits his simile till it rises to some very great idea, which is often foreign to the occasion that gave birth to it. The resemblance does not, perhaps, last above a line or two, but the poet runs on with the hint till he has raised out of it some glorious image or sentiment, proper to inflame the mind of the reader, and to give it that sublime kind of entertainment which is suitable to the nature of an heroic poem. Those who are acquainted with Homer's and Virgil's way of writing, cannot but be pleased with this kind of structure in Milton's similitudes.

athwart, across

rime, hoar-frost

avenue, a walk under trees sombrous, dark, gloomy

blithe, joyous

sylvan, woody, shady

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,

Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
With one continuous sound :-

A slumberous sound,—a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream,-

As of innumerable wings,

As when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage
Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of Eld.

And loving still these quaint old themes,
Even in the city's throng

I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.

Therefore at Pentecost, which brings
The spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild;
It was a sound of joy!

They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild!
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy,

And ever whispered, mild and low,

Come, be a child once more!'

And waved their long arms to and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Oh, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar;

Into the blithe and breathing air,

Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood.

Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue,

In long and sloping lines.

And falling on my weary brain
Like a fast-falling shower,

The dreams of youth came back again,
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,
As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood! stay, oh stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!

And distant voices seemed to say,

It cannot be ! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;
Thou art no more a child!

'The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs;