He never _shows_, at least, any diseased regard of himself.

His eye is fixed on the truth, and he knows of no ill-faring.

While a man looks thitherward, all the movements of his spirit reveal themselves only in peace.
Everything conspired, or, should I not rather say?
everything was freely given, to make Milton a great poet.

Leaving the original seed of melody, the primordial song in the soul which all his life was an effort to utter, let us regard for a moment the circumstances that favoured its development.
[Illustration: His volant touch Fied and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.] From childhood he had listened to the sounds of the organ; doubtless himself often gave breath to the soundboard with his hands on the lever of the bellows, while his father's volant touch, Instinct through all proportions low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue; and the father's organ-harmony we yet hear in the son's verse as in none but his.

Those organ-sounds he has taken for the very breath of his speech, and articulated them.