MILTON ON HIMSELF

I am old and blind, Men point at me as smitten by God's frown, Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet I am not bow'd down.

I am weak, yet strong !

Imurmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong. Father Supreme, to Thee !

LARMES ET SOURIMES 727

0 merciful One !

When men are furthest, then art Thou most near, When men pass by, and they my weakness shun.

Thy chariot then I hear !

Thy glorious Face Is ever towards me, and Thy Holy Light Shines on my saddened dwelling place.

And there is no more Night!

On my bended knee I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown, My vision Thou hast dimmed that I may see,

0 God, Thyself alone !

1 have nought to fear,

My darkness is the shadow of Thy Wings, 'Neath it I'm almost saved, for can come here No evil sinful things !

Ah ! 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 grand and holy song !

Nothing grieves me now When heaven is open to my sightless eyes, Zephyrs of Paradise refresh my brow,

Whilst 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 !

Oh ! give me my lyre !

I feel the strivings of a gift Divine Within my bosom glows unearthly fire

Lit by no skill of mine !

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME (Mes Souvenirs)

Translated from Chateaubriand (1769-1848) My childhood's home-that pleasant spot, By me can never be forgot !

How happy, sister, then appeared Our country's lot,

0 France ! to me be still endeared,

Be still revered !

Our mother's form remember 'st thou?

1 see her by the chimney now, Where oft she clasped us to her breast,

While on her brow Our lips the white locks fondly pressed. Then were we blessed 1

And, sister, thou remember 'si yet The castle which the stream would wet.

And that strange Moorish tower so old.

Thou'lt not forget

How from its bell the deep sound rolled

And day foretold !

Remember'st thou the lake's calm blue ? The swallow brushed it as he flew. How with the reeds the breezes played

The evening hue, With which the waters bright were made,

In gold arrayed !

One image more — of all the best The maid whom to my heart I pressed, As youthful lovers we would stray

In moments blessed.

About the wood for wild flowers gay. ,

Past-past away!

Oh ! give my Helen back to me !

My mountain and my old oak tree, I mourn their loss, I feel how drear

My life must be !

But, France ! to me thou wilt appear

For ever dear !

SONNET

Translated from Louise Labé.

While yet these tears have power to flow, For hours, for ever passed away ; While yet these painful sighs allow My faltering voice to breathe a lay ;

While yet my hand can touch the chords. My tender lute, to wake thy tone; While yet my mind no thought aflords, But one remembered dream alone,

I ask not death whate'er my state :

But when my eyes can weep no more, My voice is lost, my hand untrue,

And when my spirit's fire is o'er.

Nor can express the love it knew, Death, cast thy shadow o'er my fate.