Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves, Had been fulfill'd but through mine own default, By weakest subtleties, not made to rule, But to subserve where wisdom bears command! Dungeon, or beggery, or decrepit age! Light the prime work of God, to me is extinct, Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eas'd, Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. Without all hope of day! O first created Beam, and thou great Word, And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true She all in every part; why was the sight That she might look at will through every pore? Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave; By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs; To all the miseries of life. Life in captivity Among inhuman foes. But who are these? for with joint pace I hear Enter CHORUS. Chorus. This, this is he; softly a while, Let us not break in upon him: O change beyond report, thought, or belief! See how he lies at random, carelessly diffus'd, With languish'd head unpropt, As one past hope, abandon'd, And by himself given over ; Or do my eyes misrepresent? Can this be he, Irresistible Samson? whom unarm❜d No strength of man, or fiercest wild beast, could withstand; Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid; And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery Of brazen shield and spear, the hammer'd cuirass, Chalybean temper'd steel, and frock of mail Adamantéan proof? But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanc'd, In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurn'd them to death by troops. The bold Asca lonite Fled from his lion ramp; old warriours turn'd Or groveling, soil'd their crested helmets in the dust. Then with what trivial weapon came to hand, The jaw of a dead ass, his sword of bone, A thousand fore-skins fell, the flower of Palestine, In Ramath-le chi, famous to this day. Then by main force pull'd up, and on his shoulders bore The gates of Azza, post, and massy bar, Up to the hill by Hebron, seat of giants old, Thy bondage or lost sight, Inseparably dark ? Thou art become (O worst imprisonment!) The dungeon of thyself; thy soul, (Which men enjoying sight oft without cause complain) Imprison'd now indeed, In real darkness of the body dwells, Shut up from outward light To incorporate with gloomy night; For inward light alas ! Puts forth no visual beam. O mirrour of our fickle state, Since man on earth unparallell'd! The rarer thy example stands, By how much from the top of wonderous glory, To lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fallen. For him I reckon not in high estate Whom long descent of birth, Or the sphere of fortune, raises; But thee whose strength, while virtue was her mate, Might have subdued the earth, |