dramatic; sometimes, but not often, sentimental; but in narration and description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond him. He makes every scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass before our eyes; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification.

As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of Camoens; who was nearly cotemporary with Tasso, but whose poem was published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama; an enterprise splendid in its nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen of Camoens, as it laid the foundation of their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The poem opens with Vasco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, between the island of Madagascar, and the coast of Ethiopia. After various attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably received in the kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an account of Europe, recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the adventures of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the poem. This recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well imagined; contains a great many poetical beauties; and has no defect, except that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African Prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco and his countrymen afterward set forth to pursue their voyage. The storms and distresses which they encounter; their arrival at Calecut on the Malabar coast; their reception and adventures in that country, and at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem.

The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both the subject and the incidents are magnificent; and, joined with some wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execution much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold description; as far as I can judge from translations, without any knowledge of the original. There is no attempt towards painting characters in the poem; Vasco is the hero, and the only personage indeed that makes any figure.

The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant; not only is it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan mythology; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to be the true deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordinate agents. One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our author informs us, is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extirpate Mahometanism. In this religious undertaking, the great protector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is excited by Vasco's attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils of the gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the gospel. Vasco, in great distress from a storm, prays most seriously to God; implores the aid of Christ and the Virgin, and begs for such assistance as was given to the Israelites, when they were passing through the Red Sea, and to the Apostle Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. return to this prayer, Venus appears, who discerning the storm to be the work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery shows how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion that there could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end

In

of the work, indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole mythology; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and the rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the operations of Providence.

There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, in the Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, King of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that Prince to discover his secret springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined monarch for whom the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy idea. But the noblest conception of this sort, is in the fifth Canto, where Vasco is recounting to the King of Melinda, all the wonders which he met with in his navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by any navigator, there appeared to them on a sudden, a huge and monstrous phantom rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and thunders, with a head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them with a voice like thunder; menacing them, for invading those seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed; and for daring to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been revealed to the eye of mortals; required them to proceed no farther; if they should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were to befall them; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was employed; and is sufficient to show that Camoens is a poet, though of an irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination.*

In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no mention of the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The measured poetical prose, in which it is written, is remarkably harmonious; and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the French language is capable of supporting, even in regular verse.

The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived; and is deficient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the ancient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his hands, than in those of any other modern poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful; especially of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited; such as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind which he has given.

The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in which Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The narration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterward, especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and languid; and in the warlike adventures which are attempted, there is a great defect of vigour. The chief objection against this work being classed with epic poems, arises from the minute details of virtuous policy, into which

* I have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, composed by Alonzo d'Ercilla, because I am unacquainted with the original language, and have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. Hayley in the Notes upon his Essay on Epic Poetry.

the author in some places enters; and from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur upon us too often, and too much in the strain of common-place morality. Though these were well suited to the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of a young prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of epic poetry; the object of which is to improve us by means of actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than by delivering professed and formal instruction. Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe the gradual refinement of men's notions concerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer's Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object.The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. When the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know whether Ulysses is above ground, or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their condition in the other world; and when Ulysses endeavours to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious figure which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him that all such speeches are idle; for he would rather be a day-labourer on earth, than have the command of all the dead.

In the sixth book of the Eneid, we discern a much greater refinement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world had then made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. The separate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one, and the employments and happiness of the other, are finely described; and in consistency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes Telemachus pay to the shades is much more philosophical still than Virgil's. He employs the same fables and the same mythology; but we find the ancient mythology, refined by the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the just is an excellent description in the mystic strain; and very expressive of the genius and spirit of the author.

Voltaire has given us in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, in French verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect to find marks of genius; and, accordingly, that work discovers, in several places, that boldness in the conceptions, and that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for which the author is so remarkably distinguished. Several of the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are both new and happy. But, considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it one of his chief productions; and I am of opinion, that he has succeeded infinitely better in tragic than in epic composition. French versification seems ill adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of elevation or majesty; and appears to be more capable of expressing the tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sublime ia epic. Hence a feebleness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade; and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often languishes. It does not seize the imagination: nor interest and carry the reader along, with that ardour which ought to be inspired by a sublime and spirited epic poem.

The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth over the arms of the League. The action of the poem, properly includes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic in its nature; great, interesting, and conducted with a sufficient regard to unity, and all the other critical rules. But it is liable to both the defects which I before remarked in Lucan's Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil wars and presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massacres and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, like Lucan's, of too recent a date, and comes too much within the bounds of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and to remove the appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry's to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth; though every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notoriety, a fiction like this, shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in order to give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former transactions of the civil wars, in imitation of the recital which Æneas makes to Dido in the Æneid. But the imitation was injudicious. Æneas might with propriety, relate to Dido, transactions of which she was either entirely ignorant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. But Queen Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprised of all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her.

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a great deal of machinery. But here also, I am obliged to censure his conduct; for the machinery which he chiefly employs, is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an epic poem, that of allegorical beings. Discord, Cunning, and Love, appear as personages, mix with the human actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and devils have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived as existing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than representations of human dispositions and passions. They may be employed like other personifications and figures of speech; or in a poem, that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy the chief place. They are there in their native and proper region; but in a poem which relates to human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when such beings are described as acting along with men, the imagination is confounded; it is divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not on what to rest.

In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and possesses real dignity. The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed one of the finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the invisible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream in the seventh canto.Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before God; their astonishment when, arriving from all different countries and religious sects, they are brought into the Divine presence; when they find their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them; the palace of the destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect of his successors which is there given him; are striking and magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire.

Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly extended, yet the narration is, on the whole, too general; the events are too much crowded, and superficially related; which is doubtless one cause of the poem making a faint impression. The strain of sentiment which runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears on every occasion with great and proper lustre: and the author breathes that spirit of humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works.

Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for himself a new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial and infernal beings. Angels and devils are not the machinery, but principal actors in the poem ; and what, in any other composition, would be the marvellous, is here only the natural course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs of this world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can properly be classed among epic poems. By whatever name it is to be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius; and in one great characteristic of the epic poem, majesty and sublimity, it is fully equal to any that bear that name.

How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his subject, may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, and less theological; that was more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded a greater display of the characters and passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, have to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But the subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his genius. It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted; and in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints given us in the Sacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and regular a structure; and to fill his poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh passages sometimes occur. The author appears, upon some occasions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But the general tenor of his work is interesting; he seizes and fixes the imagination; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed; which is always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change of his objects; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now in heaven, affords a sufficient diversity; while unity of plan is, at the same time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise; and we have busy scenes and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. The innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast that reigns throughout the whole poem; only the conclusion as I before observed, is too tragic for epic poetry.

The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of charac

"He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others: the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on which too much could not be said; on which he might tire his fancy without the censure of extravagance." Dr. JOHNSON's Life of Milton.