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 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 ha