Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
  Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
  Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

53. On His Blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent
  Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
  And that one talent, which is death to hide,
  Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
  My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
  ‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’
  I fondly ask.  But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies:  ’God doth not need
  Either man’s work or his own gifts.  Who best
  Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.  His state
Is kingly.  Thousands, at his bidding, speed
  And post o’er land and ocean, without rest;
  They also serve who only stand and wait.’

Keightley’s Text.

* * * * *

LADY NAIRNE.

54. The Land o’ the Leal.

I’m wearin’ awa’, John,
Like snaw when it’s thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
    To the land o’ the leal.

There’s nae sorrow there, John,
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day’s aye fair
    In the land o’ the leal.

Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John,
And oh! we grudged her sair
    To the land o’ the leal.

But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,
And joy is comin’ fast, John,
The joy that’s aye to last
    In the land o’ the leal.