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 God 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 arrive