Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun

May shine upon my old and time-worn head,

For the last time, perchance. My race is run;

And soon amidst the ever-silent dead

I must repose, it may be, half forgot.

Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread

For many a year, with those who trembled not

To buckle on their armour for the fight,

And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;

And I have never bowed me to his might,

Nor knelt before him—for I bear within

My heart the sternest consciousness of right,

And that perpetual hate of gilded sin

Which made me what I am; and though the stain

Of poverty be on me, yet I win

More honour by it, than the blinded train

Who hug their willing servitude, and bow

Unto the weakest and the most profane.

Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go

Before the footstool of my Maker, where

I hope to stand as undebased as now!

Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair

Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind,

I feel the odours that perfume the air,

And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.

Within my heart I picture them, and then

I almost can forget that I am blind,

And old, and hated by my fellow-men.

Yet would I fain once more behold the grace

Of nature ere I die, and gaze again

Upon her living and rejoicing face—

Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,

My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—

I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild,

The patient, sole interpreter, by whom

So many years of sadness are beguiled;

For it hath made my small and scanty room

Peopled with glowing visions of the past.

But I will calmly bend me to my doom,

And wait the hour which is approaching fast,

When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,

And heaven itself be opened up at last

To him who dared foretell its mysteries.

I have had visions in this drear eclipse

Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,

Striving to utter with my earthly lips

What the diviner soul had half divined,

Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse

Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined

Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven

All outward strife and tumult from my mind,

And humbled me, until I have forgiven

My bitter enemies, and only seek

To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.

Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak,

For one who may not love nor suffer more!

Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,

And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,

Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,

Which made the beautiful Italian shore,

In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,

An Eden and a Paradise to me.

Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west

Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,

In search of odours from the orange bowers?

Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee

Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?

And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong

'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,

Making the summer one perpetual song?

Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride

I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,

With that fair youthful vision by my side,

In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?

O my adored angel! O my bride!

Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,

My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem

To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,

By the bright margin of that flowing stream.

I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet

Than fancied music floating in a dream,

Possess my being; from afar I greet

The waving of thy garments in the glade,

And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—

What time as one half eager, half afraid,

Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,

And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed

The secret of the heart from whence they sprung.

Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven

Gave up an angel beautiful and young,

Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven:

A bright Aurora for the starry sphere

Where all is love, and even life forgiven.

Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!

Dost thou await me in thy blest abode?

While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,

And count each step along the rugged road;

A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,

And eager to lay down my weary load!

I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.

Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell

Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,

Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,

Retains within its mystic urn the hum

Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell—

Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they come

Between me and my rest, nor can I make

Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb.

Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!

Nor wander back with sullen steps again;

For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take

In such a journey, nor endure the pain.

The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;

So let them ever uninvoked remain,

And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.

Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,

Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:

No second spring can come to make them blow,

But in the silent winter of the grave

They lie with blighted love and buried woe.

I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,

Nor slothful lay in the CircÉan bower;

Nor did I yield myself the willing slave

Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.

No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;

For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;

Man—made in God's own image—and I felt

How of our own accord we courted shame,

Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,

And so renounced the great and glorious claim

Of freedom, our immortal heritage.

I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,

Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,

How error stole behind the steps of truth,

And cast delusion on the sacred page.

So, as a champion, even in early youth

I waged my battle with a purpose keen;

Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth

Of serpent jealousy. And I have been

With starry Galileo in his cell,

That wise magician with the brow serene,

Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell

The wonders of the planetary sphere,

And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel

On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.

And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—

Names once so gracious to an English ear—

In days that never may return again.

My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard

Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain,

And the faint effort of the humble bard

Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy,

To speak in words of thunder. What reward

Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I

Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,

Without a hope or wish, except to die.

But truth, asserted once, must still abide,

Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs

Which day and night gush from the mountain-side,

Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,

Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,

But cannot conquer with the force it brings.

Yet I, who ever felt another's woe

More keenly than my own untold distress;

I, who have battled with the common foe,

And broke for years the bread of bitterness;

Who never yet abandoned or betrayed

The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,

Am left alone to wither in the shade,

A weak old man, deserted by his kind—

Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!

Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind,

Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;

Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,

In the rich promise of eternal day.

Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,

Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:

And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,

Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate

Now sits, his task of life-long labour done,

Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,

After sore journey through this world of sin,

In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,

Until the door shall ope, and let him in.