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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 God 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.
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