blames him, as a poet,
for not having chosen the more stupendous action. Milton thus obtained
further a perfect Greek simplicity of plan. The Crucifixion has always
seemed profaned when any modern poet has dared to describe it.

The _Samson Agonistes_ was, you know, Milton's last work. How suitable,
above all other subjects, to the Hebrew soul within him! Their common
blindness--the simplicity of character that is proper to a strong
man--"the plain heroic magnitude of mind"--the absolute dependence on God,
that is to say, trustful dependence brought out by blindness--the
submission under the visiting hand of heaven provoked by Samson's own
disobedience--God's especial selection of him _as his own_, a dedicated
Nazarite--his call to be a national deliverer--All these combined to
affect his devout imagination; while one might almost think, that in the
youthful Milton the same fancy had delighted in the prowess and exploits
of Samson which rejoiced in the heroes of chivalrous fable.

What are Dryden's works to these? How shall we compare Poet with Poet--Man
with Man?

Let us then turn to the other clauses in Sir Walter's eulogium, and we
shall be able to go along with him in much--not all--of what he affirms of
his darling Dryden. He was verily A GREAT TRANSLATOR. But before speaking
of his performances, or of his principles, in that Fine Art, Translation,
let us say a few words on its range and power.

It is indeed most desirable to have the gift of tongues, though the
"myriad-minded" man had but that of his own. There are people who can
parley all the European languages, even like so many natives, and read you
off-hand any strange-looking page, be it even MS., you can submit to their
eyes. Yet, we believe, they always most feelingly understand the "old
familiar faces" of the words they got by heart in lisping them, and that
became a part of their being, not by process of study, but by that seeming
inspiration, through which childhood is ever joyfully acquiring
multifarious lore in the spirit of love. In waking and sleeping dreams we
speak our mother tongue. In it we make love--in it we say our prayers.
Had he lived till he was fourscore, John Leyden, in the dotage of genius,
would have maundered by the banks of the Ganges in the Doric that charmed
his ears among the murmurs of the Teviot. Heaven bless the man who
invented Translation! Heaven bless Translators all--especially those who
give us in English all thoughts,