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 arrives he will be ready for it, whatever it may be.

The will of heaven is his happy fate.