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.

  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.