that hang over our heads wherever we go, and "in
their untroubled element shall shine when we are laid in dust, and all
our cares forgotten," affect us in the same way. Thus Satan's address to
the Sun has an epic, not a dramatic interest; for though the second
person in the dialogue makes no answer and feels no concern, yet the eye
of that vast luminary is upon him, like the eye of heaven, and seems
conscious of what he says, like an universal presence. Dramatic poetry
and epic, in their perfection, indeed, approximate to and strengthen one
another. Dramatic poetry borrows aid from the dignity of persons and
things, as the heroic does from human passion, but in theory they are
distinct.--When Richard II. calls for the looking-glass to contemplate
his faded majesty in it, and bursts into that affecting exclamation:
"Oh, that I were a mockery-king of snow, to melt away before the sun of
Bolingbroke," we have here the utmost force of human passion, combined
with the ideas of regal splendour and fallen power. When Milton says of
Satan:

"------His form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appear'd
Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess
Of glory obscur'd;"--

the mixture of beauty, of grandeur, and pathos, from the sense of
irreparable loss, of never-ending, unavailing regret, is perfect.

The great fault of a modern school of poetry is, that it is an
experiment to reduce poetry to a mere effusion of natural sensibility;
or what is worse, to divest it both of imaginary splendour and human
passion, to surround the meanest objects with the morbid feelings and
devouring egotism of the writers' own minds. Milton and Shakspeare did
not so understand poetry. They gave a more liberal interpretation both
to nature and art. They did not do all they could to get rid of the one
and the other, to fill up the dreary void with the Moods of their own
Minds. They owe their power over the human mind to their having had a
deeper sense than others of what was grand in the objects of nature, or
affecting in the events of human life. But to the men I speak of there
is nothing interesting, nothing heroical, but themselves. To them the
fall of gods or of great men is the same. They do not enter into the
feeling. They cannot understand the terms. They are even debarred from
the last poor, paltry consolation of an unmanly triumph over fallen
greatness; for their minds reject, with a