A horror, like the darkness of the tomb,
Came over me when told,
That I might lose the brightness and the bloom,
The blessed green and gold
Of landscapes, and the circuit of the skies.
If doomed such ill to bear,—
If never more, indeed, these clouded eyes
May taste their daily fare
Of books and beauty’s charm, it were unwise
To yield me to despair.
Twin guides, that from the dawn of life till late
Your lamps for me have borne,
If weary of your task you hesitate
To serve me further, worn
And vexed with slavish toil, demanding rest
Myself alone I chide,
And grateful are the heavings of my breast,
For light so long supplied
By two such faithful friends, abused, opprest,
Your rights, poor eyes! denied.
My soul, if fails thy hope, with patient brow
Accept the outer dusk,
And trust the inner light that serves thee now
To pierce the silken husk
Of truths that do impart a quiet joy.
The self-illumined mind
Is not dependent for its best employ
On outward things, defined
To outward sense;—let aught this lamp destroy,
And I were truly blind.