He would count it falsehood
to write an unmusical verse. I allow that some of his blank lines may
appear unrhythmical; but Experience, especially if she bring with her a
knowledge of Dante, will elucidate all their movements. I exhort my
younger friends to read Milton aloud when they are alone, and thus learn
the worth of word-sounds. They will find him even in this an educating
force. The last ode ought to be thus read for the magnificent dance-march
of its motion, as well as for its melody.
Show me one who delights in the _Hymn on the Nativity_, and I will show
you one who may never indeed be a singer in this world, but who is
already a listener to the best. But how different it is from anything of
George Herbert's! It sets forth no feeling peculiar to Milton; it is an
outburst of the gladness of the company of believers. Every one has at
least read the glorious poem; but were I to leave it out I should have
lost, not the sapphire of aspiration, not the topaz of praise, not the
emerald of holiness, but the carbuncle of delight from the high priest's
breast-plate. And I must give the introduction too: it is the cloudy
grove of an overture, whence rushes the torrent of song.
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the son of heaven's eternal king,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
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