Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun 
May shine upon my old and time-worn head, 
For the last time, perchance. My race is run; 
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead 
I must repose, it may be, half forgot. 
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread 
For many a year, and with those who trembled not 
To buckle on their armor for the fight, 
And set themselves against the tyrant's lot; 
And I have never bowed me to his might, 
Nor knelt before him -- for I bear within 
My heart the sternest consciousness of right, 
And that perpetual hate of gilded sin 
Which made me what I am; and though the stain 
Of poverty be on me, yet I win 
More honor by it, than the blinded train 
Who hug their willing servitude, and bow 
Unto the weakest and the most profane. 
Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go 
Before the footstool of my Maker, where 
I hope to stand as undebased as now! 

Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair 
Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind, 
I feel the odors that perfume the air, 
And hear the rustling of the leaves behind. 
Within my heart I picture them, and then 
I almost can forget that I am blind, 
And old, and hated by my fellow-men. 
Yet would I fain once more behold the grace 
Of nature ere I die, and gaze again 
Upon her living and rejoicing face -- 
Fain would I see thy countenance, my child, 
My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace -- 
I hear thy voice, so musical and mild, 
The patient sole interpreter, by whom 
So many years of sadness are beguiled; 
For it hath made my small and scanty room 
Peopled with glowing visions of the past. 
But I will calmly bend me to my doom, 
And wait the hour which is approaching fast, 
When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes, 
And heaven itself be opened up at last 
To him who dared foretell its mysteries. 
I have had visions in this drear eclipse 
Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies, 
Striving to utter with my earthly lips 
What the diviner soul had half divined, 
Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse 
Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined 
Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven 
All outward strife and tumult from my mind, 
And humbled me, until I have forgiven 
My bitter enemies, and only seek 
To find the straight and narrow path to heaven. 

Yet I am weak -- oh! how entirely weak, 
For one who may not love nor suffer more! 
Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek, 
And my heart bound as keenly as of yore. 
Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest, 
Which made the beautiful Italian shore, 
In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest, 
And Eden and a Paradise to me. 
Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west 
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope, 
In search of odors from the orange bowers? 
Still, on thy slopes of verdure, does the bee 
Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers? 
And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong 
'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours, 
Making the summer one perpetual song? 
Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride 
I walked in joy thy grassy meads among, 
With that fair youthful vision by my side, 
In whose bright eyes I looked -- and not in vain? 
O my adorèd angel! O my bride! 
Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain, 
My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem 
To wander with thee, hand in hand, again, 
By the bright margins of that flowing stream. 
I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet 
Than fancied music floating in a dream, 
Possess my being; from afar I greet 
The waving of thy garments in the glade, 
And the light rustling of thy fairy feet -- 
What time as one half eager, half afraid, 
Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue, 
And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed 
The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. 
Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven 
Gave up an angel beautiful and young, 
Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven; 
A bright Aurora for the starry sphere 
Where all is love, and even life forgiven. 
Bride of immortal beauty -- ever dear! 
Dost thou await me in thy blest abode! 
While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here, 
And count each step along the rugged road; 
A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave. 
And eager to lay down my weary load. 

I who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave. 
Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell 
Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave, 
Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell, 
Retains within its mystic urn the hum 
Heard in the sea-grots where Nereids dwell -- 
Old thoughts still haunt me -- unawares they come 
Between me and my rest, nor can I make 
Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb. 
Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake! 
Nor wander back wit