ed in this opinion, from observing the many traits of delicacy and feeling, which Dante exhibits. Indeed there is scarcely any other author, ancient or modern, who affords so many proofs of deep sensibility, through all the gradations of the pathetic, from the soft melancholy of Paulo and Francese da Rimini, to the soul harrowing woes of Count Ugolino. This characteristic pathos, may also be traced in the sympathy with which he describes the departed souls to feel for the objects they had cherished in this world. Neither the intense sufferings, nor the accumulated horrors of hell, are sufficient to extinguish those kindly sentiments in the breasts of the damned; and the air of heaven, instead of chilling the affections of the blessed, seems to have had the most genial influence on them;their bosoms appear to respond more warmly than ever, to the feelings of those they loved on earth, and suspending their enjoyment, they turn with fond anxiety to the poet, to enquire about the friends and the companions they left in tears after them in this world. Who that has ever read the passage, can forget that fearful description in the Inferno, where Dante relates his entrance into a dreary plain, filled with burning sepulchres, and where a father is represented as slowly raising his head from the tomb in which he is consuming, to enquire about the fate of a beloved son who had survived him on earth, and, on learning the melancholy fate of his child, sinks abruptly into the flames, overwhelmed with despondence. Indeed the superiority of the Italian poet to Milton, in portraying intensity of feeling, or violence of passion, is unquestionable. There is considerable tenderness and sentiment, in many parts of Paradise Lost, but very little of deep pathos; possibly the subject did not admit of it, but even if we examine the nature, and observe the tendency of Milton's genius, it will not be found very favourable to this species of excellence; it was too unearthly, too passionless; it delighted only in the abstract and supernatural; it loved to dive amid the gloomy depths of the bottomless abyss, and skim along the Stygian pool, or to visit some lonely and secluded spot of earth, and view creation in the freshness of its primal bloom, or, to soar amid the solitude of the highest heaven; but it shrunk with fastidious sensitiveness from the busy haunts of men, and exhibiting an indifference, amounting to apathy, for the objects of their toils, and of their passions. In fact, we look upon this poem, as the transcript of some celestial record,-like the prophet of old, he appears to draw his knowledge and his inspiration from some mysterious volume, presented to him in a glorious vision. Dante,

on the contrary, wrote like one who had staked his hopes and his happiness on the promises of the world, and whose heart was crushed by its treachery. He appears to have consulted only the feelings of his own breast, and he may be said to have drawn his inspiration from his misfortunes. He elevated the objects of his love, to regions of never fading joy and light, and consigned the objects of his hatred, to bottomless perdition.

The description of those rebel spirits, who, retired apart from the rest, sung "with notes angelical," their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall; Satan's address to the sun, in the commencement of the fourth book; the allusion to his own blindness, which the poet makes in his inimitable apostrophe to the Holy Light; some of the scenes between Adam and Eve, but particularly the farewell to Paradise, are about the most affecting passages of Paradise Lost. The latter indeed, is of more frequent quotation than the others, and ranks very high, as an instance of the pathetic, in the routine of school declamation; but the fact is, that no one ever has been deeply affected

by this passage. It demands the unqualified admiration of every lover of poetry, for its eloquence.-It is glittering with the hues of the sunny arch, and redolent with all the sweets of the muse's bower; but it bears the character of some of Milton's elegiac pieces. It is too eloquent and ornate, and the consequence is, that it draws down but few.ributary tears. Besides, at the time of perusal, we cannot sufficiently estimate the magnitude of the evil. The eye of the reader cannot pervade the dim vista of futurity, nor can the mind enter into any theological calculations on the extent of the calamity which was then inflicted on mankind. Even were this possible, the universality of the misfortune would only tend perhaps to render its claim on individual sympathy more precarious. For our own parts, we look upon Satan's magnificent address to the sun, as the most affecting part of the poem, and yet, who can say, that he will rise from the perusal of it, with the same feeling that he would from the reading of Lear or Othello?

The distinction between Dante's pathos, and that of Milton, must be apparent to the most superficial reader. Milton's sorrow flows in a pensive and shaded stream, but they are the bright and transparent waters of an untroubled fountain. The current of Dante's grief, is dark and troubled, it flows amid wailing and gnashing of teeth, and resembles that mournful river that winds through his own Hell, and whose source is fed by the tears of the miserable in this world. The devils of Milton's creation, are infinitely superior to those which Dante has presented us with. The latter, it must be allowed, are introduced for the most part, in a subordinate capacity, as guides or executioners, whilst the former are about the leading characters of the poem. The consequence has been, that the Italian fiends are very ordinary personages, mere common-place devils, sufficiently cruel, spiteful, and malicious, but without the intellect, the energy, or the hauteur of Milton's fallen spirits. However loud and declamatory, the latter may be, in war and council, they are, for the most part, sullen and uncomplaining in their sufferings. Their silent endurance, forms a strong contrast with the shrieks of agonizing pain, the shouts of despair, and the hissing blasphemies which rise in wild tumult, from the centre of Dante's Hell.

Milton's arch-field is universally allowed to be a chef d'œuvre. To institute a comparison between him and the three-headed monster, which Dante has drawn, would be ludicrous. The latter is puerile and unmeaning. Like an Indian idol, a mere thing of grimace and deformity, whilst at every point, and in every situation, we view the former, he is nothing less, than Arch-angel ruined, whether like the destroying angel, with outstretched arm, threatening universal ruin, and arrested only by the might of Omnipotence, or, "hurled down headlong from the precipice of Heaven," pursued by "sulphurous hail and thunder, winged with red lightning," or "chained upon the burning lake, overwhelmed with floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,"-or, like the eclipsed sun, shedding disas trous twilight; or, in his wrathful mood, like the boding comet, shaking war and pestilence from its horrid bair;-or, after defeat, scowling amid the gloom of hell, with faded brow, and face entrenched with thunder-scars; his looks, his gestures, and his attitudes, are those of excessive daring, indomitable energy, or supernatural endurance. Much of the mannerism of the respective poets may be discovered in the monsters they have introduced. Milton's Sin and Death, however they may have shocked the classic taste of the French literary dandies, are certainly chef-d'œuvres of mon

strocity, the beau ideal of the horrible and atrocious;-in sublimity and power, they are much beyond the infernal caricatures of Dante; the latter are hideous figures, and on the whole, too fantastic and disgusting.

We have no state in Dante, analogous to Milton's paradise of fools. It appears to have been suggested to the English Bard, by Ariosto's moon. But Milton's Eden, and Dante's Purgatorio, display a kindred style of painting. In each, we have the same delicate touches and harmonious colouring. The Purgatorio appears to be, "that genial clime, not unvisited by heaven's light,' "which was sought for in vain, by Satan and his associates It is true, that with the exception of its highest grade, the Paradiso terrestre, it is by no means a state of enjoyment; but there is very little of actual suffering, and the prevailing sentiment on which the Poet dwells, and which he turns to such account, is the regret which the exiled spirits feel at the length of their banishment from the mansions of their father's house. Nothing indeed can be more beautiful or spirit-stirring, than the commencement of the canto in which he describes his entrance into the Purgatorio. The lyric burst with which he announces the transition, the bright images and allusions which he introduces, the kindly flow of his feelings, and the modulation of the voice, announce to us at once, that we have entered the regions of Hope, and the heart of the reader bounds with sympathetic emotion at his first exclamation "O dolce color della oiental zaffir.a" After passing through the valley of the shadow of death, where the mind was bowed down and oppressed by the most overwhelming horrors, the effect of the transition is perfectly electrical. Instead of the writhing and contorsions of the damned souls, suffering under the extremity of pain, and giving expression to their feelings in the language of despair and blasphemy, we have groups of pensive spirits singing the 'ugnus Dei' and salve regina,' and looking with fond anticipation towards those blissful regions, where the tears are wiped from every eye.

Although we prefer the Inferno and Purgatorio to the Paradiso, we consider Dante's Heaven a much more spiritual and intellectual abode than Milton's. Raphael remarked with great truth, that the latter had little to boast over Eden. It is a beautiful landscape, and on the whole, somewhat bolder and more picturesque than the earthly Paradise; but the outlines and colourings of the two, are perfectly similar. The inhabitants of the celestial sphere, are also very little removed from creatures of clay. The angels go to lunch and sleep, with the prosaic regularity of the drowsy children of earth. Even Raphael himself, who is a character of eminent grace and beauty, and whose account of the creation is of the highest order of poetical excellence, in order to justify the keen dispatch with which he partook of Adam's meal, has been compelled to introduce as wild, fanciful, and hopeless a theory on the nature of "Angelic digestion," as ever crossed the visionary brain of a German metaphysician. How much more sublime and impressive is "the still small voice" of the Scriptuary, than all the speeches which Milton has assigned to the Deity. The cause of his failure in this respect, is pretty evident. In attempting to give us definite ideas of the enjoyments of a higher sphere, he has become too material; and in endeavouring to adapt the aspect of his celestial spirits, for the weakness and imperfection of mortal vision, he has robbed them of all the glory of their immortal brows. Every thing in Dante's Heaven, is of a spiritual and intellectual nature, and his making the bliss of Paradise consist in the Beatific vision, is in much better taste than Milton's

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nectar and ambrosial fruits. The English bard, it is very evident, drew his ideas of celestial enjoyment from the resources of Heathen Mythology, The use which Dante has made of the planetary system is very ingenious. It has enabled him to represent the enjoyments of Paradise on the same graduate scale, as the punishments of hell; according as he ascends, every thing becomes mellowed by distance, the scene fades into beautiful perspective, and mystery and allegory veil the distant objects, like the bright mists of a summer sky. Whether Beatrice was intended as the spirit of his departed mistress, or a fanciful personification of Theology, is a manner of little consequence. We are the more inclined to adopt the latter opinion, from seeing the many symptoms of his enthusiasm for this sombre science. If this opinion be correct, it is certain that he must have looked upon his mistress with a poet's eye. The radiant creature he has presented to us, has neither the gloom nor the wrinkles of controversial lore upon her brow, nor the pedantry of the schools on her charmed accents. The mode in which she conducts Dante to the mansions of the blessed, is also perfectly spiritual, and corresponds with the general tenor of his design. He is attracted from sphere to sphere, by the divine emanations of her countenance, which, at every grade, shines with a brighter and a lovelier illumination, until at length it becomes too resplendant for mortal eye to look upon, and too blissful for mortal heart to bear. What a sweet and affecting image he introduces to illustrate the tenderness of those anxious looks

"Come l'angello intra l'amate fronde
Posato al nido de' suoi dolci nati,
La notte, che le cose ci nasconde
Che per veder gli aspetti desiate
E par trover lo cibo onde gli pasca
In che gravi labore gli son grati
Prevviene 'I tempo in su l' aperta frasca
E con ardente affetto il sole aspetta
Fiso guardando, pur che l'alba pasca :
Cosi la donna," &c. &c.

In estimating the average of their respective merits, it is difficult to decide in whose favour the balance inclines. With respect to originality, Dante has certainly the advantage. His character in this respect stands almost unimpeached, whilst some very grave charges have been preferred against Milton. The English bard has been accused of stealing his Eden from a Latin poem, in considerable repute, at the time he wrote-his paradise of fools from Ariosto-his hell from Tasso, and his Devils from Pulci. That some of these charges originated in prejudice and error, we are satisfied to think, and that any use he has made of the foregoing authors, can detract very little from the merits of his poetical character, we are ready to allow. But as Dante wrote at a period of comparative ignorance, as he had fewer resources to apply to, and as he drew more immediately from the depths of his own mind, it is but fair to concede to him the higher praise in this point. There were many luminaries in the horizon when Milton appeared; but Dante arose in the wane of the gothic night, and flamed like the daystar in the pale twilight of literature.

There is less analogy between the style, than between the matter of the

two poems. Dante's style is condensed and sententious to an extrordinary degree; his robe does not exhibit those ample folds, which are so well adapted to the gigantic stature of Milton, and which trail in sweeping majesty after his footsteps. It is barely sufficient to cover the collassal figure, whose muscles and sinew appear to infinite advantage through the texture. The same distinction which marks the general tenor of their composition, holds good as to the construction of their sentences. The flow of Milton's sonorous periods, may be compared to the notes of some Cathedral organ-It is a brave and swelling tide of song, which bears up its subject in triumphant majesty. Dante's cadences resemble the rapid measure of a harp, whose chords are shaken by the emotions of its master. Dante moves with perfect facility and grace, under the fetters of rhyme; but had Milton been encumbered by these gothic shackles, he could never have raised himself to the eminence on which he stands, nor could his eye have glanced from "earth to heaven," from "heaven to earth," with the boldness and the freedom which characterise his inspiration. In his enthusiastic greeting of Virgil "O degli attri poeti onore elte ume," &. the Italian bard professes himself his debtor, for the beauty of his style, and declares himself to be his humble disciple and follower. Making every allowance for the honorable enthusiasm which dictated this avowal, we are by no means disposed to grant the extent of the admission." He may have chosen Virgil for his model; but if we except the mere plan of his poem, which was probably suggested by the 6th book of the Eneid, some of the minor deputies of the Inferno, and those very awkward mythological allusions, with which he, as well as Milton, has embarrassed himself, there is very little in the matter, and nothing at all in the style of the Divina Commedia, to remind the reader of the Mantuan Bard. He not only excells Virgil in energy, but he distances, in this respect, every profane writer of prose or poetry in ancient or modern literature. He is more nervous than Demosthenes, and, without being so epigrammatic, he is more sententious than Junius. It is indeed a matter of profound astonishment to us, how he could have woven the silken language of his country to a texture of such strength and durability.

In tracing up whatever is peculiar in each poet to its primary source, we find the line of distinction become more clear and palpable. The unearthly grandeur and sublimity of the one, and the intense feeling and energy of the other, form their most striking characteristics. Milton's genius may be compared to the illuminated fountain of Mordechai's vision. Dante's to the sacred fire, whose flame never languished. Milton towered above the world like that shadowy figure which is represented by the Latin Poet, to walk the earth with its head buried amid the clouds. He conversed not only with the good and the bad spirits, but was familiar with all the monstrous sights and forms which existed before creation, and the tablet on which he recorded his immortal thoughts was composed of the four elements. But whether in the depths of the Inferno or rejoicing among the children of light, Dante's breast always throbbed with the feelings of this world. For the most part, he appears to have been conversant with "that sorrowful spirit which drieth up the bones," and to have contended with the phantoms of his own mind, from which issued a deeper darkness, and more frightful shapes, than from the Hell of the Apocalypse. The wreath which adorns the forehead of the one is composed of the leaves of the tree of life. That which binds the brow of the