It was enough to him then that God should
judge him, for his will is the one good thing securing all good things.
Amongst the keener delights of the life which is at the door, I look for
the face of George Herbert, with whom to talk humbly would be in bliss a
higher bliss.
CHAPTER XIV.
JOHN MILTON.
John Milton, born in 1608, was twenty-four years of age when George
Herbert died. Hardly might two good men present a greater contrast than
these. In power and size, Milton greatly excels. If George Herbert's
utterance is like the sword-play of one skilful with the rapier, that of
Milton is like the sword-play of an old knight, flashing his huge but
keen-cutting blade in lightnings about his head. Compared with Herbert,
Milton was a man in health. He never _shows_, at least, any diseased
regard of himself. His eye is fixed on the truth, and he knows of no
ill-faring. While a man looks thitherward, all the movements of his
spirit reveal themselves only in peace.
Everything conspired, or, should I not rather say? everything was freely
given, to make Milton a great poet. Leaving the original seed of melody,
the primordial song in the soul which all his life was an effort to
utter, let us regard for a moment the circumstances that favoured its
development.
[Illustration:
His volant touch
Fied and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
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