XIX. 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; XX. TO MR. LAWRENCE. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire XXI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. XXII. TO THE SAME. CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 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. XXIII. 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, Rescued 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 shined So clear, as in no face with more delight. But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked-she fled-and day brought back my night. I. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. HIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 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, 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. It was the winter wild, THE HYMN. 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. |