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.

      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!

      O merciful One!When men are farthest, then Thon art most nearWhen friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,      Thy chariot I hear.

      Thy glorious faceIs leaning towards me, and its holy lightShines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,      And there is no more night.

      On my bended kneeI 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.

      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.

      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.

      It is nothing now,When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,      That earth in darkness lies.

      In a purer climeMy being fills with rapture—waves of thoughtRoll 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!