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ART. III.-Paradise Regained, an unfinished Poem, First and part of Second Book. Minor Poems, including " Morning" and " Evening." The Bard-a Poem in Two Cantos. By MARK BLOXHAM, A.M. Chaplain to the Right Hon. the Earl of Errol. Pp. xvii. 214. London Groombridge. 1834.

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THAT Milton was a perfect idiot there is no doubt, since he wrote Paradise Regained, which all the world, as well as Mark Bloxham, knows, was an inferior publication." We do not, therefore, wonder that a precocious genius, like the aforesaid Mark, (who never wrote a line of poetry till "a week or two after he had attained the age of twenty-two," and that "by accident," as he tells us at p. 209, and then composed almost all the present volume "in ten months,") should put himself "into direct juxta-position with Milton," (p. 202) in order to shew the world-for, as he observes, in this respect, as well as many others, "the inference, with regard to mankind, is obvious" (p. 209)what dolts men are to cry up John Milton in the way they have, as a great poet! "Who made Milton ?" asks our indignant author in his Preface. "Can He that made him, not also make others?" "The Lord's hand is not shortened," he adds! (viii.) "I know," he says above, "that he [Milton] wrote a poem, entitled Paradise Regained-though I have never read it. I am quite conscious that my identity of title will necessarily remind the reader of his work, and put the whole weight of his justly high character in contrast with my humble pretensions; and, paradoxical as it may appear, I have selected the subject, and taken the title precisely, because it must lead to such results."!! Well done, candour! Then follows an argument upon this principle of authorship, which, as Mark Bloxham says, if not acted on, "would have deprived the world of Paradise Lost" -as well as two Paradises Regained. It is this principle which, acted on, has produced the wonderful invention. of a pair of snuffers, and which, if not acted on, would have deprived the world of the still more wonderful invention of snuffing a poet's rushlight by the aid of his fingers. Mr. Bloxham tells us much about hope -and the "forlorn hope" on which he has entered; yet, as he poetically observes, "if it be forlorn, it is yet a hope—it is a hope, though a forlorn hope." (ix.) We tell Mr. Bloxham, that as "men have also before now led the forlorn hope,' and led it successfully,”—so has he ; for we will defy all the malevolence of all "that class of would-be critics," ("whose petty barkings," "wrapping himself up in his poetic mantle," he says, "with all due dignity," "he shall regard with all suitable indifference,") (xvi.) to say that he has not succeeded—succeeded gloriously-in cut-doing Milton, Virgil, Tasso, and all the host of lame dogs that yelped heroics before him. He has, indeed, out-done old Johnny-and there is no vanity if we think so-for what were Milton's

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pretensions to Mark Bloxham's! Could the secretary of Oliver Cromwell aspire to equal capacity with the chaplain of the Earl of Erroll? "Who made Milton ?" we ask also, "Who made Mark Bloxham ?" Either Julia, Anna, and Caroline, to whom Mr. Bloxham has addressed sonnets and Canzones, in imitation no doubt of Petrarch of old, are the legal spouses of the Rev. Mark Bloxham, or they are not; and if they are not, is it in place, or out of place, for the "father of seven children," with "the charge of seven hundred Protestant souls, belonging to him exclusively," to publish such preposterous gibberish as the following?

ΤΟ ΑΝΝΑ,

ON SEEING HER UNEXPECTEDLY AT A PUBLIC ASSEMBLY.

Ah why, my heart, that bursting throb,
Why this fever in my veins-
Ah, wherefore is that maddened sob,
Tell me what this tumult means!

Ah, wherefore is that thrilling shock,
Why my brain be all on fire-
Ah, why my knees, convulsive, rock,
What-emotion such inspire!

Ah, why my trembling limbs refuse
Their tottering load to bear-
Why mists and clouds my sight suffuse,
Objects, all, confusion wear!

"Tis she herself!-ah, see that face-
Once it fondly beamed on me,

"Tis she herself, her every grace,
Oh, help! I faint

"O Gemini!"-Pp. 127, 128.

The break in the last line, intended to be filled up as the gentle reader may please, we supply by the impassioned apostrophe"O Gemini."—

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Mr. Bloxham tells us, he rests his pretensions to the character of Milton's match, partly in his Sonnets. Milton also perpetrated things called Sonnets, so did Petrarch, and Donne, and Wordsworth. Now we have always considered the sonnet to be a sonnet, when composed as sonnets should be; and the whole value of that species of poem consists, according to the four foolish persons just named, in the particular manner in which the rhymes are introduced. But what says Mr. Bloxham ? "With respect to the sonnets-I deprecate hypercriticism as to the title. I know they are not in the strict form of the Italian sonnet; and I have not adopted it, because I never saw an English sonnet, properly so called, that in my opinion did not suffer from the form." (P. xiv.) Now this is precisely what we should have expected from the author of the New Paradise Regained. There is an old saying, "When the de'il can't swim, he always finds fault with the water." Shakspeare certainly wrote his sonnets irregularly in many instances; but if Shakspeare did wrong to call them sonnets, Mr. Bloxham, the out-doer of the Sonnetteer Milton, ought not to have followed so pernicious an example; but perhaps he intends to rival Shakspeare also; yea, verily, and all the world to boot. For where in the universe shall we find a being, besides our author, who could have penned, or even conceived, such a delusion as this?

The last lines of Paradise Regained were composed in 1820, soon after I was ordained. I found, at that period, the composition of poetry put my mind off the key for pulpit composition; I found pulpit exertions re-act on the other, by unfitting my mind for poetical exertions-one or other had to be given upthe latter was the one which duty required to give way-however dear to me, I therefore made it give way-and to the time of preparing this volume for press, studiously avoided every thing of the kind, even to the perusal of the new poetry of the day. I, indeed, hoped and purposed, at some future period, when circumstances permitted me not to preach so constantly, to resume and finish my work. For fourteen years that period has come not. I give the work in its present form to the public, in the conviction, that, if I be considered competent to the task, there exist men, who, being friendly to literature, will place me in such a position in my profession, as will enable me to employ assistants in the ministry, and thus delivering me from the necessity of constant preaching, will put it into my power to finish my work. I did not nor do require an exemption from general parochial duties. It was the pulpit duties alone, that I found present an insuperable obstacle, and to do justice to myself and my work, I must be at ease on that point

"Nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva."

It is not, however, the mere feelings of vanity, or ambition for applause, that have led me to submit this volume to the public-indeed, I had to sacrifice both, in resolving to publish my work, in an unfinished state. I am a father— seven children in my household-for nearly fifteen years an actively employed clergyman-acknowledged to possess some merit professionally-being without family influence in the church, I am still, of course, an unbeneficed clergyman, and likely to continue such. I offer the completion of my work, as the purchase of a competency, in a professional line, for the maintenance of my familyvanity, therefore, has had no place in this publication.-Preface, Pp. xiv-xvi.

No man out of Bedlam could have imagined such a notion as the above, save our Reverend friend; and, therefore, we do not wonder that there should follow in the heels of this gallimawfry, an address, in rhyme, to "The Right Hon. Henry Lord Brougham and Vaux, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain," &c., hinting, in no measured terms, that Mr. Bloxham expects the first Chancellor's living which may fall, as the reward of his diligence in the class of the great "schoolmaster;" and that, unless "The Lord Harry" sends him a presentation in "double quick," perhaps another conflagration may speedily occur, even (oh! monstrous!) the burning of the late Chancellor's wig.

Brougham! if proudly raised thy honored head,
And above thy fellows, justly, set on high,
If o'er its height the clouds their blessings shed,
"Tis thine-to fertilize the valleys nigh.
Behold her book the Sibyl thee present-

Let not refused-too late it thee repent. (P. xix.)

Surely had the Council had cognizance of this threat, they might have justly considered that the late destruction of the House of Lords was occasioned by Mr. Bloxham's fiery muse; we half suspect him of being a Unionist or Whitefoot, for he has elsewhere hinted very broadly at incendiarism, or something equally horrible, in one of his "sonnets" to Julia :

O think-the heart with passion most replete,

If changed the stream-could likewise keenest hate.-P. 85.

That some of his verses are smooth, and that occasionally they contain a happy thought, or an eloquent allusion, is surely no marvel, seeing the extent of his lucubrations. But to say that he has accomplished a feat in thus writing, after the age of twenty-two, though not a poet till then, we cannot. If, however, unintelligibility be sufficient to save him from this weak praise, he has most certainly arrived at a renown, which Milton himself never deserved. Witness the following specimens :

Again, with meek devotion, and with bend
Of lowly adoration, thrice they bow-
And, mid remembrance of the various toils
They, each, on earth bore patient, by their Lord
Allusion of approval gracious made,

Return to blissful mansions pleased prepare.
At their departure, he the o'erpowered three,
Who yet remained entranced, with strength anew,
Recruited vigour, from his breath inspired.-P. 40.

They fiercely tossing on the fiery deep,
By whirlwind sweep of burning hail o'er-lashed,
Now each against other dashing-driven now
Apart the general wreck, their shattered bulk

To all the madness of the o'er-topping surge
Single opposed, tremendous, overwhelmed

Sink swallowed, gulphing-or in whirlpool caught
Round the fierce vortex furious circles sweep.-P. 48.

But should the thunders, for a moment, ceased
In awful interval, their voice permit,

Their fellows, they, who scarce escaped, the while,
The shores or islands scanty, from the force
Of that fierce ocean plucked, solid fire each,
Crowd-pluming o'er their sad disordered wing,
In wretched wo beseech-if chance some aid
Might be afforded.-P. 49.

Yon simple rustic bends his way
Where, high above, discordant jay
Her aery castle builds;

Yet here his hand directs the plough,
On distant turrets gazeth now,

That glisten o'er the fields.

Ah! who would think that peasant boy,
Whom, floating, circles every joy,
Whom every pleasure hails,

That town immersed in fogs admire,
Unlike the breath its rustic fire

That, curling, graceful sails.-Pp. 70, 71.

Dim mists, dense vapours azure rest,
The mount is clad in cloudy vest,
In hood of gloomness capt;

The distant ocean's glassy smooth,
Upon whose bosom slumbers sooth
Still sails, in grey haze wrapt.-P. 68.

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With smell sulphureous all the air is stenched.-P. 103.

Now we bid defiance to fancy to form an intelligible meaning for the above passages, whether insulated as they now stand, or in conjunction with the text. The man who could interpret them, deserves a Chancellor's living as much as the man who wrote them. Were we inclined to be minute, we could easily find plenty of small fry to bait our critical hooks withal, in the peculiarly "elegant" grammar of our author, and in the euphonious rhymes which betray his country. Two examples of the former will suffice.

Beneath him roll

Every dark, unseemly cloud.-P. 152.

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