Let us, for instance, take the rhythm of Bernard the Englishman (as he was really, though called of Morlaix). "Jerusalem the Golden" has made some of its merits common property, while its practical discoverer, Archbishop Trench, has set those of the original forth with a judicious enthusiasm which cannot be bettered.[10] The point is, how these merits, these effects, are produced. The piece is a crucial one, because, grotesque as its arrangement would probably have seemed to an Augustan, its peculiarities are superadded to, not substituted for, the requirements of classical prosody. The writer does not avail himself of the new accentual quantification, and his other licences are but few. If we examine the poem, however, we shall find that, besides the abundant use of rhyme--interior as well as final--he avails himself of all those artifices of what may be called word-music, suggesting beauty by a running accompaniment of sound, which are the main secret of modern verse. He is not satisfied, ample as it may seem, with his double-rhyme harmony. He confines himself to it, indeed, in the famous overture-couplet-- "Hora novissima, tempora pessima sunt, vigilemus! Ecce! minaciter imminet arbiter ille supremus." [Footnote 10: _Sacred Latin Poetry_ (2d ed., London, 1864), p. 304. This admirable book has not been, and from its mixture of taste and learning is never likely to be, superseded as an introduction to, and chrestomathy of, the subject. Indeed, if a little touch of orthodox prudery had not made the Archbishop exclude the _Stabat_, hardly a hymn of the very first class could be said to be missing in it.] But immediately afterwards, and more or loss throughout, he redoubles and redoubles again every possible artifice--sound-repetition in the _imminet, imminet_, of the third line, alliteration in the _recta remuneret_ of the fourth, and everywhere trills and _roulades_, not limited to the actually rhyming syllables of the same vowel-- "Tunc nova gloria pectora sobria clarificabit... Candida lilia, viva monilia, sunt tibi Sponsa... Te peto, te colo, te flagro, te volo, canto, saluto." He has instinctively discovered the necessity of varying as much as possible the cadence and composition of the last third of his verse, and carefully avoids anything like a monotonous use of his only spondee; in a batch of eighteen lines taken at random, there are only six end-words of two syllables, and these only once rhyme together. The consequence of these and other devices is that the whole poem is accompanied by a sort of swirl and eddy of sound and cadence, constantly varying, constantly shifting its centres and systems, but always assisting the sense with grateful clash or murmur, according as it is loud or soft, of word-music. [Sidenote: _Literary perfection of the Hymns._]