In "Paradise Regained," a sequel which Mr. Ellwood, a Quaker, reports himself to have suggested to Milton, the great qualities of the poet are unimpaired. His verse is that which he alone could wield. His sonorous catalogues, the music of names, the eagle glance over all the kingdoms of earth and the glory of them, the triumph of the pure spirit over carnal joys; nay the haunting memories of old romance, Of fairy damsels, met in forest wide, By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, Lancelot, or Pelleas, or Pellenore, these are all present, all are captivating. It is natural to wish that, while young, Milton had followed his dominant motive into Arthur's fairy land, and told the story of Galahad and the Holy Grail: the purity that wins the Beatific Vision. His "Samson Agonistes," in the severest style of Greek tragedy, sets forth his own strength foiled by blindness, mocked by the dull triumphs of the wanton crowd, and triumphant in death. The occasional unrhymed verse of the chorus, not in decasyllabic lines, stands for Milton's curious antipathy for rhyme, in which, when he chose, he excelled. The subtleties and sophistries of Delilah express his idea of one type of womanhood, the other type shines in the steadfast love of the repentant Eve. The poem, with all the strength, has less of the charm of Milton than his other great works. Milton died in 1674; a poet who in one sense might be styled "self-taught," for while he was so deeply read, his verse was no echo, nor ever can be re-echoed. It is foolish but natural to appraise the relative greatness of great poets, but, Shakespeare apart, it is to the lonely Milton that the world has always awarded the crown of England's greatest. Samuel Butler.