GEORGE HERBERT.

SONNET.

     TO CYRIACK SKINNER.

Cyriack, this three years’ day, these eyes, though clear,
  To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
  Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year,
  Or man or woman, yet I argue not
  Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.  What supports me, dost thou ask? 
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty’s defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask,
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

MILTON.

INVICTUS.

Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
  I have not winced nor cried aloud;
Under the bludgeonings of chance
  My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
  Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years
  Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
  I am the captain of my soul.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: 
When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,—­
Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood’s noon;
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft;
Companions of early days lost or left;
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young, and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! 
And I, a lone exile remembered of none,
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun,
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the desert afar from man.