To the Same

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 star, 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.