from his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, in which many
of his smaller works are found as they were first written, with the
subsequent corrections. Such relics show how excellence is
acquired; what we hope ever to do with ease, we must learn first to
do with diligence.

Those who admire the beauties of this great poet sometimes force
their own judgment into false approbation of his little pieces, and
prevail upon themselves to think that admirable which is only
singular. All that short compositions can commonly attain is
neatness and elegance. Milton never learned the art of doing little
things with grace; he overlooked the milder excellence of suavity
and softness; he was a "Lion" that had no skill in "dandling the
Kid."

One of the poems on which much praise has been bestowed is
"Lycidas;" of which the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and
the numbers unpleasing. What beauty there is we must therefore seek
in the sentiments and images. It is not to be considered as the
effusion of real passion; for passion runs not after remote
allusions and obscure opinions. Passion plucks no berries from the
myrtle and ivy, nor calls upon Arethuse and Mincius, nor tells of
rough "satyrs" and "fauns with cloven heel." Where there is leisure
for fiction, there is little grief.

In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no
art, for there is nothing new. Its form is that of a pastoral;
easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting; whatever images it can
supply are long ago exhausted; and its inherent improbability always
forces dissatisfaction on the mind. When Cowley tells of Hervey,