To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night,
    Great exile once from day’s dominion bright,
    Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory,
    Like some wide orb of new created light,
    Rose, in the world, bewildering mortals’ sight—­
    I’ll sing till earth’s young hills grow hoary! 
    For what of joy I’ve found in life’s dark way,
    And what of excellence have reached I may,
    Much, much is due thy wondrous rhyme,
    Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth,
    Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth,
    Of Heaven, e’er angels sang of time: 
    Of light, that o’er the embryon tumult broke,
    Of earth, when all the stars symphonious woke,
    Till man, as if from Heaven a seraph spoke,
    Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime.

    Day closes on the earth his one bright eye,
    That Night, her starry lids unsealing,
    May ope her thousand in a loftier sky,
    God’s higher mysteries revealing. 
    So when thy day from thee its light withdrew,
    And o’er the night its rueful shadows threw,
    And “from the cheerful ways of men”
    Thy steps cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes,
    As night with stars, piercing thy shrouded skies,
    And proving most illumined then,
    When darkest seeming, soared on cherub wings—­
    Those star-eyed wings—­higher than ever springs
    The beam of day, to see, and tell of things
    Invisible to mortal ken.

    O’er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll
    Till man to live, who to them hearkened;
    Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul,
    Shall shine when yon proud sun is darkened. 
    Thee, now, methinks, I see, O bard divine! 
    Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine,
    And God’s full love is pleased on thee to shine,
    Still by the heavenly Muses fired,
    And starred among the angelic minstrel band,
    The sacred lyre thou sway’st with sovereign hand,
    While seraphs, in awed rapture, round thee stand,
    As one by God himself inspired.

    Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound,
    Once exiled from thy realm, yet not discrowned—­
    Assist me; since my spirit, thrilling
    With thy surpassing strains, is mute, spell bound;
    For through the hush of years they still resound,
    With music weird my spent ear filling. 
    When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell,
    And Earth born Music sang her sad farewell;
    Thy mighty Genius, as in scorn,
    Arose in silent majesty to dwell,
    Where from symphonic spheres thou heard’st to swell,
    As on celestial breezes borne,
    Sounds, scarce by angels heard, e’en in their dreams;
    Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes,
    And pouring down in rich pellucid streams,
    Filled organ grand and resonant horn;
    With rarest sweetness touched