l. 132: Observe the exquisite art with which Milton manages the transition from the Christian to the heathen. He assumes that Alpheus and the Sicilian Muse had shrunk away ashamed while St. Peter was speaking. In bidding them now to return, he implies that he is coming down from the spiritual heights to which for a while he had been lifted up, and entering the region of pastoral poetry once more.--l. 159-164: These lines were for a long time very obscure. Dr. Todd in his learned notes, to which I must refer, has done much to dissipate the obscurity, though I cannot think all is clear even now. P. 148, No. cxxvi.--These lines are the short answer to a very long question, or series of questions, which Davenant has called _The Philosopher’s Disquisition directed to the dying Christian_. This poem, than which I know few weightier with thought, unfortunately extends to nearly four hundred lines--its length, and the fact that it appeals but to a limited circle of readers, precluding me from finding room for more than a brief extract from it, and that in this note; but it literally abounds with lines notable as the following: ‘Tradition, Time’s suspected register, That wears out Truth’s best stories into tales.’ I am well aware of the evil report under which Davenant labours, and there are passages in his poems which seem to bear it out, as for example this, which appears to call into question the resurrection: ‘But ask not bodies doomed to die, To what abode they go: Since knowledge is but sorrow’s spy, It is not safe to know.’ At the same time ‘the Philosopher’ here does not so much deny that there is any truth for man as that he has any organ whereby, of himself, he may attain this truth. The poem--it is the dying Christian who is addressed--opens thus: ‘Before by death you nearer knowledge gain, (For to increase your knowledge you must die) Tell me if all that learning be not vain, On which we proudly in this life rely. Is not the learning which we knowledge call, Our own but by opinion and in part? Not made entirely certain, nor to all, And is not knowledge but disputed art? And though a bad, yet ’tis a froward guide, Who, vexing at the shortness of the day, Doth, to o’ertake swift time, still onward ride, While we still follow, and still doubt our way; A guide, who every step proceeds with doubt, Who guessingly her progress doth begin; And brings us back where first she led us out, To meet dark midnight at our restless inn. It is a plummet to so short a line, As sounds no deeper than the sounder’s eyes; The people’s meteor, which not long can shine, Nor far above the middle region rise. This spy from Schools gets ill intelligence, Where art, imposing rules, oft gravely errs; She steals to nature’s closet, and from thence Brings nought but undecyphered characters.