The Blind Psalmist

He sang the airs of olden times In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes, Devotional, but quaint; His fingers touched the viol’s strings, And at their gentle vibratings The glory of an angel’s wings Hung o’er that aged saint! His thin, white locks, like silver threads On which the sun its radiance sheds, Or like the moonlit snow, Seemed with a lustre half divine Around his saintly brow to shine, Till every scar, or time-worn line, Was gilded with its glow. His sightless balls to heaven upraised, As with the spirit’s eyes he gazed On things invisible— Reflecting some celestial light— Were like a tranquil lake at night, On which two mirrored planets bright The concave’s glory tell. Thus, while the patriarchal saint Devoutly sang to music quaint, I saw old Homer rise With buried centuries from the dead, The laurel green upon his head, As when the choir of bards he led, With rapt, but blinded eyes! And Scio’s isle again looked green, As when the poet there was seen, And Greece was in her prime; While Poesy with epic fire Did once again the Bard inspire, As when he swept his mighty lyre To vibrate through all time. The vision changed to Albion’s shore: I saw a sightless Bard once more From dust of ages rise! I heard the harp and deathless song Of glorious Milton float along, Like warblings from the birds that throng His muse’s Paradise! And is it thus, when blindness brings A veil before all outer things, That visual spirits see A world within, than this more bright, Peopled with living forms of light, And strewed with gems, as stars of night Strew diamonds o’er the sea? Then, reverend saint! though old and blind, Thou with the quenchless orbs of mind Canst natural sight o’erreach; Upborne on Faith’s triumphant wings, Canst see unutterable things, Which only through thy viol’s strings, And in thy songs, find speech.