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Thy gifts were utterly withheld from Him
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied Porch.
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained;
Ask of the channelled rivers if they held
A safer, easier, more determined course.
What terror doth it strike into the mind
To think of One, who cannot see, advancing
Towards some precipice's airy brink!
But, timely warned, He would have stayed his steps;
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear,
And on the very brink of vacancy
Not more endangered than a Man whose eye
Beholds the gulph beneath.—No floweret blooms
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills,
Or in the woods, that could from him conceal
Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth
Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind;
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores
Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led,
His genius mounted to the plains of Heaven.
—Methinks I see him—how his eye-balls rolled,
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired,—
