Classic Poem

Dark were the shadows of the room
As Valombrosa's green-arched gloom;
Only the organ-pipes' dim row
Sent through the dusk a golden glow,
As yearning for the Master's hand
Their slumbering secrets to command
And pour wild music out, until
Deep melancholy's sweetest will
Had utterance, luxurious woe
In silver thunders sobbing slow.

For his was all the subtle art
Of melody that breaks the heart
With rapture. And delicious shocks,
Sweet as the honey of the rocks
To other sense, well did he know
From dulcet stops to breathe and blow —
Tones swelling into gathering tune,
Like dark waves swelling to the moon,
While the rapt soul sank whelmed and drowned,
Lost in the tumult of vast sound!

And all that larger music, too,
The music of our speech, he knew;
Word meeting word in melting rhyme
As birds sing in the dewy prime,
Fleet syllables to ordered ways
Moving in pomp of ringing phrase
And haunting memory with their line,
Like mighty clarions clear and fine
On mountain echoes lingering long —
Great Milton, Master of all song!

Now in the gloom the Master sate,
Blind, silent, old, and desolate.
Yet full the light about the pole
And firmament of his high soul!
And there great forms around him came,
He heard sweet voices call his name,
He fought old fights and, bearding fate,
Splendid and perfect shaped the State.
Still his blood burns, his chamber rings,
As when he bandied words with kings!

There, too, came pictures of the days,
With free feet set in fortunate ways,
When, winged with youth and poesy,
The under heaven of Italy
Was his — just after that glad prime
When Comus led his sylvan mime,
And, as some spring in sunshine slips,
" L'Allegro " bubbled from his lips —
And his did hoar horizons bend
With Galileo for his friend!

But yesternight, it seemed, that hour
He climbed to find the lonely tower
Of Arcetri, where the sad sage
Sat like some older archimage
'Midst his black arts, who weighed the sun,
Saw hidden moons their courses run,
Watched the earth spin, and wrought his spell
Even from the Inquisition's cell,
And, while the door slid in its grooves,
Cried to himself, " And still it moves! "

Had Galileo seen the youth
Climbing the hill, the rose, in sooth,
Bright on his cheek as on a girl's,
Along his shoulder yellow curls,
And lithe and strong his limbs, his tread
Like one who walks on air instead
Of common earth, he might have thought
Some young Greek god his wand had brought —
Had the remorseless heavens spared
Sight to the eyes their depths had bared!

Yet could but his old heart rejoice
At the fresh sweetness of that voice,
And with high converse fill the hour
Ere darkness wrapped the lonely tower.
Ah! what a night, my Milton, then
Opened the deep skies to thy ken,
When Galileo raised his glass
And bade the great procession pass,
With spirits quickening from their cars,
With dancing of the daedal stars!

There belted planets, horned moons,
Swam as to rhythm of unheard tunes;
There, circling in far frosty lines,
Old Mazzaroth led out his signs:
And as his race some lampad runs
Ran red Arcturus with his sons.
Where this white host their lustre trailed
Were these the Pleiades unveiled?
Whose was this sword-flame cleft the sky?
And was that Ashtoreth went by?

Ah, what strange joys that fateful hour
Brought to him on the lonely tower!
What wild throbs called his soul to arms.
With starry challenge like alarms
From silver trumpets, while his sense
Swooned in eclipse, and power immense
Swept up with him and turned the keys
Upon undreamed eternities!
What depths he pierced, what glories trod,
Till the last glory showed him God!

Alas, alas, how fallen here
These long years later! Sphere o'er sphere
So that Great Spirit fell before
From heights of heaven. Now heaven no more
For him who, darkling, blind, and old,
Sees morning's rose nor evening's gold,
The smile of children sees, nor eyes
Tender as stars-in twilight skies.
Sovereigns dishonor, friends disown,
Blind, in the dark, he sits alone.

Alone? Who throng the portals then,
Companions towering more than men?
Into what amplitude of space
Open the walls of that sad place?
What courts where, white as ancient frost,
Stand seraphs, with their wide wings crossed,
Where shining captains come and go,
Where tides of battle ebb and flow,
And where, as in the farthest blue,
The wars of heaven are fought anew!

Alone, when from the outer towers
Lean Dominations, Virtues, Powers?
When, in wan splendor Lucifer
Pauses till all the pulses stir,
With Uriel, of the Seven that one
Whom John saw standing in the sun?
And blind, who with undazzled sight
Meets the inviolate source of light,
And, while archangels keep the posts,
Sees face to face the Lord of Hosts?

Oh, Milton, singing thy great hymn
And quiring with the cherubim,
Thou art not blind, or sad, or old,
Thou hast no part in dark grave-mould,
Forever fair and blithe and young
And deathless as thy golden tongue!
The nightingale upon thy bough
Sang never half so sweet as thou,
And could'st thou only sing to me
I would be blind that thou might'st see!