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PRIVATION.
The blind majestic bard, whose tearless eyesWere patient in the weariness of night;And one, his brother in a kindred art,Bereft of melody, as he of light;
Fruition was not for them to the sense—The world for one, for one the swelling tone;"We work—"they said, and in high toil abode,And: "we have wrought," they uttered, and passed on.
My Milton! thou whose holy heart forboreThe doubtful rite of uncongenial shrines,But gave the perfect tribute of its faith,Before thee now the true Shekinah shines.
Seeking a nearer moral for my song,I find two poets of the latter days,Branded by Nature with the fatal gift,Pilgrims from birth, but in divergent ways.
This rode his blood's high mettle to the full,Goading satiety with unblest wine;This to a meeker measure moved along,Palm-heralded, as Christ in Palestine.
