The unity of his being is the strength of Milton. He is harmony, sweet
and bold, throughout. Not Philip Sidney, not George Herbert loved words
and their melodies more than he; while in their use he is more serious
than either, and harder to please, uttering a music they have rarely
approached. Yet even when speaking with "most miraculous organ," with a
grandeur never heard till then, he overflows in speech more like that of
other men than theirs--he utters himself more simply, straightforwardly,
dignifiedly, than they. His modes are larger and more human, more near to
the forms of primary thought. Faithful and obedient to his art, he spends
his power in no diversions. Like Shakspere, he can be silent, never
hesitating to sweep away the finest lines should they mar the intent,
progress, and flow of his poem. Even while he sings most abandonedly, it
is ever with a care of his speech, it is ever with ordered words: not one
shall dull the clarity of his verse by unlicensed, that is, needless
presence. But let not my reader fancy that this implies laborious
utterance and strained endeavour. It is weakness only which by the agony
of visible effort enhances the magnitude of victory. The trained athlete
will move with the grace of a child, for he has not to seek how to effect
that which he means to perform.
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