England's Antiphon Part 24

His volant touch Fied and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.]

From childhood he had listened to the sounds of the organ; doubtless himself often gave breath to the soundboard with his hands on the lever of the bellows, while his father's

volant touch, Instinct through all proportions low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue;

and the father's organ-harmony we yet hear in the son's verse as in none but his. Those organ-sounds he has taken for the very breath of his speech, and articulated them. He had education and leisure, freedom to think, to travel, to observe: he was more than thirty before he had to earn a mouthful of bread by his own labour. Rus.h.i.+ng at length into freedom's battle, he stood in its storm with his hand on the wheel of the nation's rudder, shouting many a bold word for G.o.d and the Truth, until, fulfilled of experience as of knowledge, G.o.d set up before him a canvas of utter darkness: he had to fill it with creatures of radiance. G.o.d blinded him with his hand, that, like the nightingale, he might "sing darkling." Beyond all, his life was pure from his childhood, without which such poetry as his could never have come to the birth. It is the pure in heart who shall see G.o.d at length; the pure in heart who now hear his harmonies. More than all yet, he devoted himself from the first to the will of G.o.d, and his prayer that he might write a great poem was heard.

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. Milton has only to take good heed, and with no greater effort than it costs the ordinary man to avoid talking like a fool, he sings like an archangel.

But I must not enlarge my remarks, for of his verse even I can find room for only a few lyrics. In them, however, we shall still find the simplest truth, the absolute of life, the poet's aim. He is ever soaring towards the region beyond perturbation, the true condition of soul; that is, wherein a man shall see things even as G.o.d would have him see them. He has no time to droop his pinions, and sit moody even on the highest pine: the sun is above him; he must fly upwards.

The youth who at three-and-twenty could write the following sonnet, might well at five-and-forty be capable of writing the one that follows:

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely happy spirits endu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which time leads me and the will of heaven: All is--if I have grace to use it so As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

The _It_ which is the subject of the last six lines is his _Ripeness_: it will keep pace with his approaching lot; when it arrives he will be ready for it, whatever it may be. The will of heaven is his happy fate. Even at three-and-twenty, "he that believeth shall not make haste." Calm and open-eyed, he works to be ripe, and waits for the work that shall follow.

At forty-five, then, he writes thus concerning his blindness:

When I consider how my life is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide-- "Doth G.o.d exact day-labour, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent _foolishly._ That murmur, soon replies: "G.o.d doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

That is, "stand and wait, ready to go when they are called." Everybody knows the sonnet, but how could I omit it? Both sonnets will grow more and more luminous as they are regarded.

The following I incline to think the finest of his short poems, certainly the grandest of them. It is a little ode, written _to be set on a clock-case_.

ON TIME.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race.

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace, And glut thyself with what thy womb devours-- Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross: So little is our loss!

So little is thy gain!

For whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed, And last of all thy greedy self consumed, Then long eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; _that cannot be divided-- And joy shall overtake us as a flood; [eternal._ When everything that is sincerely good, And perfectly divine With truth and peace and love, shall ever s.h.i.+ne About the supreme throne Of him to whose happy-making sight alone When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb, Then, all this earthy grossness quit, Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit Triumphing over Death and Chance and thee, O Time.

The next I give is likewise an ode--a more _beautiful_ one. Observe in both the fine effect of the short lines, essential to the nature of the ode, being that which gives its solemnity the character yet of a song, or rather, perhaps, of a chant.

In this he calls upon Voice and Verse to rouse and raise our imagination until we hear the choral song of heaven, and hearing become able to sing in tuneful response.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

Blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ-- Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce-- And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed song of pure concent[105]

Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne To him that sits thereon, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; Where the bright seraphim, in burning row, Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow; And the cherubic host in thousand choirs, Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms Singing everlastingly; That we on earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise-- As once we did, till disproportioned[106] Sin Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason,[107] whilst they stood In first obedience and their state of good.

O may we soon again renew that song, And keep in tune with heaven, till G.o.d ere long To his celestial consort[108] us unite, To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!

Music was the symbol of all Truth to Milton. 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.

That glorious form, that light insufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont[109] at heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of trinal unity, He laid aside, and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the infant G.o.d?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how, from far upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet!

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet; And join thy voice unto the angel choir, From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

THE HYMN.

It was the winter wild While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her l.u.s.ty paramour.

Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded that her maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace.

She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around; The idle spear and s.h.i.+eld were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, _awe-filled._ As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began; The winds, with wonder whist, _silent._ Smoothly the water kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm[110] sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars with deep amaze Stand fixed in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer,[111] that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new enlightened world no more should need: He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn, _ere ever._ Sat simply chatting in a rustic row: Full little thought they than _then._ That the mighty Pan[112]

Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal finger strook-- Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat[113] the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed; The helmed cherubim And sworded seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir, With unexpressive[114] notes to heaven's new-born heir.

Such music, as 'tis said, Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,[115]

And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres; Once bless our human ears-- If ye have power to touch our senses so;[116]

And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the ba.s.s of heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort[117] to the angelic symphony.[118]

For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die;[119]