It is, of course, a melancholy work. In one sense, because of the subject matter. In another sense, simply because of what it is. The soil from which Milton's crystalline blossoms of verse drew their nourishment was dark and poisonous. The words, while grand and beautiful, weep venom upon the page as you read. In striving to justify God's ways to men, the poet betrays his own wickedness, and worse, shame, made all the more apparent by this task. This was not for lack of skill or of virtue. It is simply because of the nature of the act. Many readers testify that what he sought to make just he renders base, and so on (surely the cause of William Blake's famous comment). But you already knew that. Anyways, this affliction can likely be blamed upon the aforementioned wickedness and shame, though mostly the latter, though I think shame is its own manner of Wickedness, especially and near soley in this instance. It makes the otherwise jewel-netted text painful and shockingly, unexpectedly, embarrasing to read at times--like Milton is having a sort of sobbing breakdown in front of you. The altercation between Satan and Abdiel reads like Milton skirmishing with his past revolutionary beaurocrat self, or even a Cromwell-poppet. I think Cromwell's shade is lurking between the cantos of this poem, whether he's a poppet or not. The principle character is a sort of Cromwell poppet--many disagree, but they are wrong, even if Milton himself didn't know this. And naturally, this is transfixing.
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