pic of physicians, whose works lay before us. If any of my readers have not read them, they have a feast in store. If beauty of style and good ness of feeling are interesting to them, they will be delighted with the works-strange and paradoxical as some of the positions contained in them may appear-of this practical lover of toleration, who sympathized with men of all countries and all sects; "neither believing this, because Luther has affirmed it, nor denying that, because Calvin hath disavouched it;" to whom, with more propriety than any writer that I can name, applies the so often quoted "nihil humanum a me alienum puto." Not that he blazes out his love of mankind at every page -not that he makes a boast and a bye-word of his humanity; nowhere are we told, in express words, that the author is better or wiser than the rest of his species; but we are told, by the spirit of humanity which breathes through his pages, by the lovely and beautiful touches of natural feeling which burst from him, by the whole strain and tenor of his writings, that he was one who looked upon himself as a citizen of the world, and upon mankind as his brethren-who sympathized deeply in the joys and distresses of his fellows-whose religion, though often mixed with singularity, was pure and humble and whose views towards his-fellow creatures were founded upon that great rule of moral conduct," Do unto another as thou would'st he should do unto thee."

But it is time to bid farewell to the author of the Religio Medici, and pass on to other subjects. Suppose we take a stroll through the library. See -here-this is the Theological division which my good ancestors thought proper to heap up, not for the benefit of me, for the volumes are never opened by their unworthy descendant. I care, indeed, very little about the discordant opinions of Theologians, nor do I ever take from the shelf the Tela Ignea Satanæ, or Montague's Treatise on the Invocation of Saints. We shall therefore direct our attention to something more interesting.

Do you see that little black cupboard, with a crown on the top? that

is filled with works of royal origin, Bagina. These are the writings of James the I. of Scotland, the poet and the lover, who spent " the long days and the nightes eke," in writing verses to celebrate his ladye love; and of James the I. of England, the persecutor of papistry and tobacco, the monarch who was a pedant when he should have been a king, and a squabbling polemic when he should have been a warrior and a statesman. These two are the writings of his less fortunate, but superior son, Charles. They breathea spirit of loftiness which becomes the subject and the author. I shall not now detain my readers with any remarks on the volume bearing Charles's name; whether it belong to him or Gauden is not at present to our purpose.

Here are my friends the Old Dramatists-here are the works of those who formerly gave delight to the crowded audiences of a tavern-room or temporary shed. There's rare James Shirley; Nat. Lee, the awful and solemn webster; the witty, comical, facetiously quick and unparalleled John Lily; the spirited but irregular Chapman; the satirical Marston, Dekker, Greene, Middleton, Bishop Bale, with his seven-in-one mysteries; and sporting Kyd, and Tournour, of whom, by the way, nobody seems to know any thing. But stay

I shall say nothing new of them, and had therefore better hold my peace. There are plenty of modern eruditi, who

talk of Tonson's art, Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; How Beaumont's judgment check'd

what Fletcher writ.

The poets have ever found a welcome place among my volumes,-not that I choose to encumber myself with the dull, cold verses of Garth, Broom, Blackmore, and the door, who compose the poetical list from the Restoration to the close of the last century. I dive into those old and neglected fields from which sweets may be gathered, far different from the languid insipidity of such wri

ters as I have mentioned. Of Chaucer it is not necessary to speak; but there are many, almost unknown, in whom the richness of poesy appears. The beautiful and touching simpli

city of the elder Wyatt-the majestic pinion of Chamberlayne's musethe far-fetched but glowing and animated conceits, mingled with innumerable beauties of a higher order, of his cotemporary Crashaw-and the graceful fluency of Herrick, have charms of no small power for the lovers of "heaven-born poesy." But the number of poets who may be called excellent, are, of course, few, and many are around me which do not merit the appellation. Sir Thovies Davies, though elegant, and frequently highly poetical, does not belong to the first class: Du Barta's “divine” works, as somebody calls them, are pompous and heavy; and wearisome indeed is the lengthy doggrel of Warner's Albion's England.

I had much to say on many other poets, and some of our earlier prose writers; but as evening is lending a deeper gloom to the heavy, dark wainscotting of the library, I must leave this collection of

books of all sorts, Folios, quartos, large and small sortstill a future period. And yonder is C coming to partake of my frugal meal, and to ramble in imagination with me over the scenes of our youth. It is a treat I would not miss for the world-dulce est desipere in loco.

CRITO.

ME MILMAN'S BELSHAZZAR*.

In watching the operations of the human mind, we feel that there is a point at which what is in common language called Talent, rises into and assumes the character of Genius. We feel that there is such a point, but we in vain attempt to detect and trace it out. At least, hitherto this has been the case; and it will probably for ever remain so, unless we suppose it possible that mind may at some future period be demonstrated to possess similar attributes to those of matter, and become subject to the inventions and discoveries of some

Belshazzar: a Dramatic Poem. By the Rev. H. H. Milman, Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. John Murray, London, 1822,

future Galileo. In the mean time, in attending to this curious subject of research, we must be content to weigh and compare actual examples, instead of measuring imaginary distinctions, and constructing uncertain and unsatisfactory theories. It is our opinion, that Poetry is a thing dependent on kind, but that the term Genius relates to degree alone; and one of the opinions consequent on the foregoing is, that the former of them may be produced without the presence of the latter; that it very rarely is so produced, but that it may be. It strikes us, that a very remarkable illustration of the foregoing position, in both its members, may be found in the works of the elegant and accomplished writer now before us. That the Fall of Jerusalem, and the Martyr of Antioch, are poetry, it would be hypercritical, as well as ungracious and ungrateful, to deny; but we hold it to be equally certain, that the natural powers of their author do not mount to that degree in the scale of the human mind which entitles them to the name of Genius. Perhaps they come nearer to that degree, without reaching it, than those of any other writer who has devoted much of his attention to poetical composition; and their results deserve to rank higher in the class to which they belong, than the productions of any other writer of whose powers the same may be predicated. We have noticed this more particularly than might at first seem necessary, because we think that, while it offers something like a denial to the proposition which is meant to be conveyed in the ancient axiom of "poeta nascitur, &c.," it also affords a most interesting and instructive example of the possible effect of culture on the human intellect. Mr Milman has, in fact, been enabled to take a respectable, and, as we sincerely hope, a permanent rank among the poets of his day, not by nature, but by himself. We would wish it to be understood, however, that we say this chiefly with reference to those works of Mr Milman which have preceded the one the title of which stands at the head of this article. Fazio, (incomparably the best of this au thor's productions,) is full of cha

racter and passion; and the Fall of Jerusalem, and the Martyr of Antioch, are stately and impressive works: but, in turning our attention to the poem immediately before us, we are reluctantly compelled to confess that it is a comparative failure. Belshazzar is, indeed, far from being without passages of consider able merit; and had it proceeded from the pen of a new candidate for literary honours, it might have excited much attention, and still more expectation, as an earnest of future excellence. But as the mature work of a tried and matured intellect, we cannot but think that it evinces nothing beyond a graceful mediocrity; that it includes much more of artifice than of nature and passion; but little eloquence either of language or versification; scarcely a single touch of involuntary poetic power; and, in fact, much more of the confidence of successful authorship, than of any thing else. Two things, however, we are sure of, that if Mr Milman had never produced any thing better than this, he would have gained no higher reputation than his mere professorship would have given him ; and that if he produces one or two more such works, he will speedily lose that rank among his brother poets which he at present holds: for the writer who, on the strength of his acquired reputation, taxes us, both in time and pocket, by means of works inferior to those we are entitled to expect from him, is selling us, not his poetry, but his name, and has consequently no longer a right to enjoy it himself; and if he should afterwards find that he needs what he has thus parted with, he will at least have all his work to do over again, and may not improbably do it all in vain: for, in the meantime, we (the public) may chance to discover, that he owed his fame more to our zeal to reward even the semblance of merit, than to his possession of the substance; or, at best, that he gained it more by what he has avoided, than by what he has done.

Though the plot of Belshazzar is very simple, including merely the last day of the monarch's life, together with his great feast-the appearance of the prophetic writing-and, finally,

the destruction of his city by the Medes and Persians; yet, it is expanded to what at last becomes a wearisome length of detail, quite incompatible with that force and distinctness of impression, which should, attend the relation of a tale of this kind. This is, however, attempted to be relieved by the introduction of a family of Jewish captives, one of whom, a betrothed bride, is torn away to be sacrificed to the impious rites of Bel the Chaldean god; but the destructive catastrophe arrives in time to save her from outrage, worse than death. In choosing our extracts from this work, (which, for our own gratification, as well as the reader's, will be the most favourable we can meet with, in the different inanners of this writer,) we shall endeavour to interweave them with, and let them follow the course of, the story itself, as related by the poet, and of which we shall give a slight sketch. The poem opens by what appears to us to be a not very judicious introduction of the Destroying Angel of the Lord, hovering over the devoted city, and dooming its fall.

Within the cloud-pavilion of my rest, Amid the thrones and princedoms that

await

I set my foot, here take my gloomy rest, Even till that hour be come, that comes full soon.

We consider this extract as affording a fair specimen of Mr Milman's characteristic manner. The versification is, in some parts, (particularly the beginning,) heavy, awkward, and monotonous; and, in others, flowing, and not unmusical. The language is proud and pompous, but, at the same time, cold and common-place; and the general effect, which might have been made highly poetical and impressive, strikes us as being somewhat indistinct and indifferent.

The human part of the action now opens, before the temple of Bel, where the priests are waiting the approach of Belshazzar, who comes to consult their gods on the issue of the siege which the Medes and Persians are laying to his city. Their terror at the portentous shadow, which is supposed to be cast around by the wings of the Destroying Angel, is stopped by the arrival of the King. He comes, attended by his haughty mother, Nitocris; and, however distasteful it may be to Mr Milman to be told of any coincidences that may look like plagiarisms*, we cannot avoid pointing out a resemblance, in this part of his work, to Lord Byron's Sardanapalus and Salameneswe mean in the remonstrances of Nitocris against the luxurious inactivity of her son. It must be confessed, too, that the resemblance shews greatly to the disadvantage of Mr Milman.

Kalassan. Great King, What answer wouldst thou, which such sumptuous offerings

May not compel?

Belshazzar. Declare ye to our gods, Thus saith Belshazzar: Wherefore am I call'd

The King of Babylon, the scepter'd heir
Of Nabonassar's sway, if still my sight
Must be infested by rebellious arms,
That hem my city round; and frantic
cries

Of onset, and the braying din of battle
Disturb my sweet and wonted festal songs?
Nitocris. In the god's name, and in
mine own,
I answer!

• See his Preface to this work.

Asserts himself the lord of human kind. Sabaris. Will he endure it?

Nitocris. Oh, my son ! my son ! Must I repent me of that thrill of joy I felt, when round my couch the slaves proclaim'd

I had brought forth a man into the world, A child for empire born, the cradled lord Of Nations-oh, my son!—and all the pride

With which I saw thy fair and open brow Expand in beauteous haughtiness, commanding

he departs, amid the exulting praises of the priests and people, to show himself on the walls of his city. The scene of the poem then changes, and we are introduced to the Jewish captives, in a dialogue which is a tolerably favourable specimen of Mr Milman's more tender and subdued manner-a manner in which he has sometimes been very successful. In this scene we are also introduced to the prophet Daniel, at least by description. The passage is one of the very best in the poem. It describes the change that has just taken place in his manners and appearance, in consequence of the supposed revelations which have come to him, of the destruction that awaits the devoted city.

Imlah. Till but lately he was girt

growth, thy greatness.

Still ripen'd: like the palm amid the

Wish all my pangs upon a shapeless offspring,

Or on a soft and dainty maiden wasted, That might have been, if not herself, like her

Thy martial ancestress, Semiramis, Mightiest at least the Mother of the Mighty?

Belshazzar. Queen of Assyria, Nabonassar's daughter!

Wife of my royal father, Merodach! Greater than all, from whom myself was born!

The gods that made thee mother of Belshazzar

Have arm'd thee with a dangerous licence. Thou,

Secure, may'st utter what from meaner

lips

sword

Of Justice. Is't not the charge of the great gods t' uphold

But to thee we deign reply.

The splendour of the world that doth them homage?

rious sun

To wither from their palace - vault in heaven,

As this rich empire from the earth.

This scene closes by the appearance of unfavourable portents, which

This scene, which has little or nothing to do with the progress of the story, but which is yet one of the most pleasing and poetical scenes in the drama, closes with a long hymn, sung by the Jewish captives; and