THIS eminent dramatic poet was born in London, on the 10th of February, 1791, and was the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, a physician of high reputation. He was first sent to school at Greenwich, where he had for his early instructor the talented Dr. Burney, under whose excellent tuition he made great proficiency in the elements of literature; after which he was removed to Eton, where he remained nine years. In 1810, he became a student of Brazen Nose College, Oxford, where his previous acquirements and continued diligence gained him the highest literary reputation, and there he obtained the greatest number of prizes that had ever fallen to the lot of any single scholar within these halls. One of them was for English, and another for Latin verse; and the third and fourth for English and Latin essays. After a career of such distinction, the path of life was open to the successful scholar, and, in 1815, he obtained a Fellowship in that College where his literary honours had been won. In 1817, he entered into holy orders, and was presented to the vicarage of St. Mary, in the town of Reading. Here he employed himself in the duties of his sacred calling until he was elected to an office which he was so well qualified to adorn; this was, the Professorship of Poetry in the University of Oxford, to which he was appointed in 1821. The life of the learned and reverend professor, as an author, notwithstanding this brief abstract, has been sufficiently distinguished by active exertion. Before he entered into orders, he wrote the Tragedy of Fazio, a work constructed upon the old English dramatic model; and the attempt was so successful, that the play was performed at Drury Lane to crowded houses, and still continues to be a favourite on the stage. The work itself exhibits a rich vein of poetry, and abounds in striking situations; so that it also pleases in the closet, notwithstanding the awkwardness of the plot, and occasional inconsistency of the characters. His next production, which appeared in 1820, was The Fall of Jerusalem. This magnificent topic had been brooded over by Coleridge for years, as the subject of an epic poem, in which the importance of the event, the thrilling nature of its incidents, and the grandeur of its antecedents and consequences, would have furnished materials only of secondary importance to those of Paradise Lost; but it was the misfortune of Coleridge to dream of great literary enterprises which he wanted industry to achieve. The subject remained unoccupied until it fell into the hands of Milman, who converted it into a sacred drama, in which, attentive to dramatic unities, he has confined the time of action to thirty-six hours; but within that brief space he has collected such an amount of description and incident, as leaves us little to regret for the non-appearance of the promised epic. His other productions were Anne Boleyn, a dramatic poem, in which the characters of Henry VIII., and the Jesuit, Angelo Caraffa, are delineated with great power of description-The Martyr of Antioch, where we have the lovely picture of a young female only a little lower than the angelsand Belshazzar, in which he has contrasted, with the strongest light and shade, the last night of pomp and revelry in Babylon, and the tremendous ruin in which it was closed. Besides these productions, Milman wrote an epic poem in twelve books, entitled, Samor, Lord of the Bright City; but this work, although exhibiting many passages of great power and richness, is defective in clearness and interest as a narrative, and has never become a favourite with the public. Although the drama has been his chosen department, Milman is defective in that quality which is the most essential element in dramatic writing the sweeping vehemence and passion which are so necessary to convert poetical abstractions into living realities. But if he is somewhat cold and artificial as a mere dramatist, he atones for this defect by his high qualities as a poet-grandeur of imagery, depth of thought, and rich melody of language, by which the lyrical passages of his plays are among the noblest specimens of our modern poetry. We may add, that he is a bright refutation of Dr. Johnson's idea, that Religion is unfitted for poetical purposes. A single page of any of Milman's sacred dramas is a conclusive argument upon this head. It is enough, for instance, to allude to the hymn of Miriam, in The Fall of Jerusalem. There have been tears from holier eyes than mine Pour'd o'er thee, Zion! yea, the Son of Man This thy devoted hour foresaw and wept. I feel it now, the sad, the coming hour; Her tale of splendour now is told and done: Oh! fair and favour'd city, where of old How stately then was every palm-deck'd street, When shall the work, the work of death begin? Her price is paid, and she is sold like thou; But never more shall yon lost city need Yet, guilty city, who shall mourn for thee? Upon thy late yet dreadful expiation. Oh! long foretold, though slow accomplish'd fate, HYMN. For thou wert born of woman! thou didst come, And not by thunders strew'd Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. In the rude manger laid to rest The heavens were not commanded to prepare Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high: Came wandering from afar, Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky; As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odours sweet The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear And seraphs' burning lyres Pour'd through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along. One angel troop the strain began, Of all the race of man By simple shepherds heard alone, That soft Hosanna's tone. And when thou didst depart, no car of flame From fatal Calvary With all thine own redeem'd outbursting from their tombs. For thou didst bear away from earth But one of human birth, The dying felon by thy side, to be Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake; The world in darkness lay; Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun: While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb, Consenting to thy doom; Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand Thy mother's coming feet, And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few. Thy human form dissolved on high O yes, yes That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd FAZIO. -What of him? Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones. |