The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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THE BLIND ENTHUSIAST. |
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| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
48
THE BLIND ENTHUSIAST.
He loved and worshipped all that's fair,
In wondrous ocean, earth, and air;
The grand, the lovely, and the rare,
To him were sacred ever;
The thousand hues that summer brings,
The gorgeous glow that sunset flings—
The source whence every beauty springs—
Can art restore? Oh, never!
In wondrous ocean, earth, and air;
The grand, the lovely, and the rare,
To him were sacred ever;
The thousand hues that summer brings,
The gorgeous glow that sunset flings—
The source whence every beauty springs—
Can art restore? Oh, never!
He loved the music of the bowers—
He loved the freshness of the showers—
He loved the odours of the flowers
With passion deep and holy;
All that the Poet's song hath stored—
All that the minstrel's strains afford,
Found in his soul a kindred chord
Of mirth and melancholy.
He loved the freshness of the showers—
He loved the odours of the flowers
With passion deep and holy;
All that the Poet's song hath stored—
All that the minstrel's strains afford,
Found in his soul a kindred chord
Of mirth and melancholy.
He walks in hopeless darkness now,
With faltering foot and lifted brow;—
If aught may human patience bow,
'Twere loss of noon-day splendour;
Hill, wood, and stream, with sunshine blent—
Bright stars that gem the firmament—
All lovely things that God hath sent,
How painful to surrender!
With faltering foot and lifted brow;—
If aught may human patience bow,
'Twere loss of noon-day splendour;
Hill, wood, and stream, with sunshine blent—
Bright stars that gem the firmament—
All lovely things that God hath sent,
How painful to surrender!
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'Tis true, he wanders forth in gloom,
Dense and unchanging as the tomb,
Yet breathes no murmur at his doom—
No sound of fretful feeling;
For though from outward vision gone,
The things he loved to look upon,
He still beholds them, one by one,
O'er memory's mirror stealing.
Dense and unchanging as the tomb,
Yet breathes no murmur at his doom—
No sound of fretful feeling;
For though from outward vision gone,
The things he loved to look upon,
He still beholds them, one by one,
O'er memory's mirror stealing.
He seeks the haunts he sought of yore—
He sings the songs he sang before—
He listens yet to your sweet lore,
Philosophy and fiction:
And, happy in a cloudless mind,
A fancy pure and unconfined,
To heaven's own will he bows resigned,
And smiles beneath affliction.
He sings the songs he sang before—
He listens yet to your sweet lore,
Philosophy and fiction:
And, happy in a cloudless mind,
A fancy pure and unconfined,
To heaven's own will he bows resigned,
And smiles beneath affliction.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |