Let us turn then to give another glance at the fallen philosopher in his final retreat at Arceti.  He lives under restrictions.  But they allow him leisure and choice wines, of which he is fond, and gardens and friends; and many come to do him reverence.  He amuses his old age with the studies of his youth and manhood, and writes dialogues on Motion, and even discovers the phenomena of the moon’s libration; and by means of the pendulum he gives additional importance to astronomical science.  But he is not allowed to leave his retirement, not even to visit his friends in Florence.  The wrath of the Inquisition still pursues him, even in his villa at Arceti in the suburbs of Florence.  Then renewed afflictions come.  He loses his daughter, who was devoted to him; and her death nearly plunges him into despair.  The bulwarks of his heart break down; a flood of grief overwhelms his stricken soul.  His appetite leaves him; his health forsakes him; his infirmities increase upon him.  His right eye loses its power,—­that eye that had seen more of the heavens than the eyes of all who had gone before him.  He becomes blind and deaf, and cannot sleep, afflicted with rheumatic pains and maladies forlorn.  No more for him is rest, or peace, or bliss; still less the glories of his brighter days,—­the sight of glittering fields, the gems of heaven, without which

“Neither breath of Morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower
Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild,... is sweet.”

No more shall he gaze on features that he loves, or stars, or trees, or hills.  No more to him

      “Returns

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But clouds, instead, and ever-during dark
Surround” [him].

It was in those dreary desolate days at Arceti,

“Unseen
In manly beauty Milton stood before him,
Gazing in reverent awe,—­Milton, his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise;
While he in his old age,...
... exploring with his staff,
His eyes upturned as to the golden sun,
His eyeballs idly rolling.”

This may have been the punishment of his recantation,—­not Inquisitorial torture, but the consciousness that he had lost his honor.  Poor Galileo! thine illustrious visitor, when his affliction came, could cast his sightless eyeballs inward, and see and tell “things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,”—­not

“Rocks, caves, lakes, bogs, fens, and shades of death,
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,”

but of “eternal Providence,” and “Eden with surpassing glory crowned,” and “our first parents,” and of “salvation,” “goodness infinite,” of “wisdom,” which when known we need no higher though all the stars we know by name,—­