On His Blindness
WHEN I consider how my light is spent, E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,
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WHEN I consider how my light is spent, E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,
LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son, Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
METHOUGHT I saw my late espousèd Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery
IF to be absent were to be Away from thee;
SHE beat the happy pavèment— By such a star made firmament,
AMARANTHA sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
O THOU that swing’st upon the waving hair Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates,
SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display’d:
SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days!
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean’s bosom unespied,
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame! ’Tis to commend her, but to name.
WHETHER on Ida’s shady brow Or in the chambers of the East,
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languish’d air,
PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee,
MY mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O, my soul is white!
HEAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees;
TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night,
SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night;
O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!
OF a’ the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west,