FROM "IL PENSEROSO."
AND the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o'er the' accustom'd oak.
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And, missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removéd place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bell-man's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And, when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye;
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep.
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid.
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the' unseen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
SONNET, ON HIS BLINDNESS.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide :
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord, Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not in Thy book record their groans,
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all the' Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having learn'd Thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT.
(ASCRIBED TO MILTON.)
I AM old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown,
Afflicted, and deserted of my kind;
Yet am I 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.
When men are farthest, then Thou art most near;
When friends pass by, my weakness shun,
Is leaning towards me: and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,—
And there is no more night.
I recognise Thy purpose, clearly shown:
My vision Thou hast dimm'd 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.
Trembling where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapp'd in the radiance of Thy sinless land, Which eye hath never seen.
Shapes of transcendent beauty round me throng,
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, When airs from paradise refresh my brow, That earth in darkness lies.
My being fills with rapture,-waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.
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