Widsith spake:  he unlocked his word-hoard.

So he had a hoard of words, you see:  and he must have needed them, for he goes on:—­

     Forthon ic maeg singan and secgan spell,
     Maenan fore mengo in meoduhealle,
     Hu me cynegode cystum dohten. 
     Ic waes mid Hunum and mid Hreth-gotum,
     Mid Sweom and mid Geatum, and mid Suth-Denum. 
     Mid Wenlum ic waes and mid Waernum and mid Wicingum. 
     Mid Gefthum ic waes and mid Winedum....

(Therefore I can sing and tell a tale, recount in the Mead Hall, how men of high race gave rich gifts to me.  I was with Huns and with Hreth Goths, with the Swedes, and with the Geats, and with the South Danes; I was with the Wenlas, and with the Waernas, and with the Vikings; I was with the Gefthas and with the Winedae....)

and so on for a full dozen lines.  I say that the memory of such men must have needed every artifice to help it:  and the chief artifice to their hand was one which also delighted the ears of their listeners.  They sang or intoned to the harp.

There you get it, Gentlemen.  I have purposely, skimming a wide subject, discarded much ballast; but you may read and scan and read again, and always you must come back to this, that the first poets sang their words to the harp or to some such instrument:  and just there lies the secret why poetry differs from prose.  The moment you introduce music you let in emotion with all its sway upon speech.  From that moment you change everything, down to the order of the words—­the natural order of the words:  and (remember this) though the harp be superseded, the voice never forgets it.  You may take up a Barrack Room Ballad of Kipling’s, and it is there, though you affect to despise it for a banjo or concertina:—­

     Ford—­ford—­ford of Kabul river...

‘Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.’  From the moment men introduced music they made verse a thing essentially separate from prose, from its natural key of emotion to its natural ordering of words.  Do not for one moment imagine that when Milton writes:—­

     But cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw.

or

     Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit
     Of that forbidden tree...

—­where you must seek down five lines before you come to the verb, and then find it in the imperative mood—­do not suppose for a moment that he is here fantastically shifting words, inverting phrases out of their natural order.  For, as St Paul might say, there is a natural order of prose and there is a natural order of verse.  The natural order of prose is:—­

     I was born in the year 1632, in the City of York, of a good family,
     though not of that county; my father being a foreigner of Bremen,
     who settled first in Hull.—­[Defoe.]

or

Further I avow to your Highness that with these eyes I have beheld the person of William Wooton, B.D., who has written a good sizeable volume against a friend of your Governor (from whom, alas! he must therefore look for little favour) in a most gentlemanly style, adorned with the utmost politeness and civility.—­[Swift.]

The natural order of poetry is:—­