XIV. ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide; 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. ΤΟ MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The li ly and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? He who of those delights can judge and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise. XVI. ΤΟ CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench And what the Swede intends, and what the French. XVII. TO THE SAME. CYRIACK, this three years day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Or Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer 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. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask Content though blind, had I no better guide. XVIII. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the old law did save, And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight But O, as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd; she fled; and day brought back my night, |