JOHN MILTON

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-labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replied: “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.”

On his having Arrived at the Age of Twenty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom show’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrive so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow.
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven:
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task-Master’s eye.
 ALEXANDER POPE

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER

Father of all! In every age, And deal damnation round the land
In every clime adored, On each I judge Thy foe.
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! If I am right, Thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
Thou Great First Cause, least understood, If I am wrong, O teach my heart
Who all my sense confined To find that better way.
To know but this-that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind; Save alike from foolish pride
Or impious discontent
Yet gave me, in this dark estate, All aught Thy wisdom has denied
To see the good form ill; Or aught Thy goodness lent,
And blinding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will. Teach me to feel another’s woe,
To hide the fault I see;
What conscience dictates to be done That mercy I to others show;
Or warns me not to do- That mercy show to me.
This teaches me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven, pursue, Mean though I am now, wholly so,
Since quickened by Thy breath.
What blessings Thy free bounty gives Oh, lead me whereso’er I go.
Let me not cast away; Through this day’s life or death.
For God is paid when man receives:
To enjoy is to obey. This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Yet not earth’s contracted span Thou know’st if best bestowed or not,
Thy goodness let me bound, And let Thy will be done.
Or think Thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round. To Thee whose temple is all space,
Whose altar earth, sea, skies,
Let not this weak, unknowing hand One chorus let all being raise,
Presume Thy bolts to throw. All Nature’s incense rise!
 THOMAS GRAY
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
The plowman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er un-roll:
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Save that, form yonder ivy-mantled tower Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
The moping owl does to the moon complain And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest his ancient solitary reign. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Some Cromwell, the guiltless of his country’s blood.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, And read their history in a nation’s eyes.
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them form their lowly bed. Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
For them no more that blazing hearth shall burn, Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or busy housewife ply their evening care: And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Along the cool sequestered vale of life
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure: They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor. Yet even those bones form insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Await alike th’ inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse
The place of fame and elegy supply:
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault And many a holy text around strews,
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,
Can storied urn or animated bust Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire: Even in our ashes live their wonted fires…
 WILLIAM BLAKE

THE LAMB THE TIGER

Little Lamb, who made thee? Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright
Dost thou know who made thee? In the forests of the night,
Gave thee life and bade thee feed What immortal hand or eye
By the stream and o’er the mead: Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, wooly, bright; In what distant deeps or skies
Gave thee such tender voice, Burnt the ardor of thine eyes?
Making all the vales rejoice? On what wings dare he aspire-
What the hand dare seize the fire?
Little Lamb, who made thee? And what shoulder, and what art
Dost thou know who made thee? Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee, What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee:
What the hammer? What the chain?
He is called by thy name, In what furnace was thy brain?
For He calls himself a Lamb. What the anvil? What dread grasp
He is meek, and He is mild; Dare its deadly terror clasp?
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb, When the stars threw down their spears
We are called by His name. And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Little Lamb, God bless thee! Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
JOSEPH ADDISON

VISIONS OF MIRZAH