XIV. 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." XV. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire XVI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench And what the Swede intends, and what the French. For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. XVII. TO THE SAME. CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. [mask, This thought might lead me through the world's vain Content, though blind, had I no better guide. XVIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint And such, as yet once more I trust to have But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked-she fled-and day brought back my night. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table to He laid aside, and here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 19 See, how from far, upon the eastern road, Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. THE HYMN. Ir was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 30 |