Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/On Milton's Blindness
On Milton's Blindness.
I am old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind;
Yet I am not cast down.
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind;
Yet I am not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong.
Father supreme, to Thee!
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong.
Father supreme, to Thee!
O merciful One!
When men are farthest, then Thon art most near
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.
When men are farthest, then Thon art most near
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.
Thy glorious face
Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,
And there is no more night.
Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,
And there is no more night.
On my bended knee
I recognise Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimmed that I may see
Thyself—Thyself alone.
I recognise Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimmed that I may see
Thyself—Thyself alone.
I have nought to fear;
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred—here
Can come no evil thing.
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred—here
Can come no evil thing.
Oh II seem to stand,
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of thy sinless land,
Which eye hath never seen.
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of thy sinless land,
Which eye hath never seen.
Visions come and go—
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,
When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.
When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime
My being fills with rapture—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit—strains sublime
Break over me unsousht.
My being fills with rapture—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit—strains sublime
Break over me unsousht.
Give me now my lyre!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine,
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine,
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine!