Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a far-fetched, costly, sickly imitation of that which elsewhere may be found in healthful and spontaneous perfection.  The soils on which this rarity flourishes are in general as ill-suited to the production of vigorous native poetry as the flower-pots of a hot-house to the growth of oaks.  That the author of the Paradise Lost should have written the epistle to Manso was truly wonderful.  Never before were such marked originality and such exquisite mimicry found together.  Indeed, in all the Latin poems of Milton the artificial manner indispensable to such works is admirably preserved, while, at the same time, his genius gives to them a peculiar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which distinguishes them from all other writings of the same class.  They remind us of the amusements of those angelic warriors who composed the cohort of Gabriel:—­

     “About him exercised heroic games
      The unarmed youth of heaven.  But o’er their heads
      Celestial armory, shield, helm, and spear,
      Hung high, with diamond flaming and with gold.”

We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius of Milton ungirds itself without catching a glimpse of the gorgeous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear.  The strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle.  So intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffocated beneath the weight of fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance.

It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete examination of the poetry of Milton.  The public has long been agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the incomparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that style which no rival has been able to equal and no parodist to degrade; which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic powers of the English tongue, and to which every ancient and every modern language has contributed something of grace, of energy, or of music.  In the vast field of criticism on which we are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles.  Yet the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf.

The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the reader.  Its effect is produced, not so much by what it expresses, as by what it suggests; not so much by the ideas which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected with them.  He electrifies the mind through conductors.  The most unimaginative man must understand the Iliad.  Homer gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion, but takes the whole upon himself, and sets the images in so clear a light that it is impossible to be blind to them.  The works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed unless the mind of the reader co-operate with that of the writer.  He does not paint a finished picture, or play for a mere passive listener.  He sketches, and leaves others to fill up the outline.  He strikes the key-note, and expects his hearer to make out the melody.