From out the darkness of the vanished years,
The voice of Milton peals; his mighty song
Rings down the centuries, its note still strong
As when it burst upon our fathers' ears.
Amid the unnumber'd harmonies that swell
From bards of earth to break round heaven's throne,
His part, clear heard amid the mingled tone,
Rolls full and solemn, like a deep-voiced bell.
A spirit strong with more than mortal strength,
When in life's battle he had borne his share,
He passed from out the tumult and the care,
And climbed upon the mountain tops at length.
There, with blind eyes turned to the Promised Land,
Waiting the dawn of an unending day,
His soul went forth in that tremendous lay
The eternal heights and breadths and depths which spanned.
Poor, lonely and forgot, though he endured
The bitter thought of labour spent in vain,
And saw invaded by a godless train
The land whose liberty he deemed assured;
Yet not for that did he "abate one jot
Of heart or hope"; scorning to cringe or cower,
Steadfast he stood like some majestic tower,
That feels the tempest's blast, but wavers not.
From rulers of the earth he asked no grace,
Nor leaned upon the love of human heart,
Lofty and passionless he drew apart,
And communed with the Highest face to face.
Far from the din and toil of mortal kind
His spirit's barque was borne; serene and high
He brooded on the unfathomed mystery
Of thoughts that burden the Eternal Mind.
For Freedom he had stood, in her defence
His best had given; where'er the fight was keen,
Ever amid the foremost had he been
Down-bearing tyranny's battalions dense.
For that he left his ease and hopes of fame;
Endured the heat and burden of the day;
And while his lyre mute and forgotten lay,
Laboured to clear from wrong his country's name.