(The last Poem of the Blind Poet)
I am old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown—
Afflicted and deserted of my mind,
Yet am I not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong—
I murmur not that I no longer see—
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee!
Ο merciful One!
When men are farthest, then Thou art most near;
When friends pass by, my weakness shun,
Thy chariot I hear.
Thy glorious face
Is leaning towards me—and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling place,
And there is no more night!
On my bended knee
I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown,
My vision Thou hast dimm’d that I may see
Thyself—Thyself alone.
I have naught to fear—
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing.
Beneath it I am almost sacred—here
Can come no evil thing.
Oh! I seem to stand
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne’er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless land,
Which eye hath never seen.
Visions come and go,
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng!
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,
When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
The earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime
My being fills with rapture—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit—strains sublime
Break over me unsought.
Give me now my lyre!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.