ic as
it was, I am not even now ashamed of. I longed to fall at his feet, and
implore his blessing; to kiss the hem of his garment; and thought, in my
foolishness, that inspiration might be communicated by his touch. I
pushed back my hair, so that I might not lose a word he uttered, or the
least look he gave. 'His sight was so impaired,' he said, 'that the
light of day occasioned him much pain; and of late he had been so
useless to his Highness, that he feared to intrude too often into his
presence.' Lady Claypole made some remark, which in truth I little
heeded, for I longed again to hear the poet speak; nor did I remain
ungratified. In answer to some observation, he stated, 'he was well
aware that much of what he had written would not meet with the
indulgence she had graciously bestowed upon his verse; for, though they
both valued freedom, they widely differed as to the mode of its
attainment.' To this the Lady Claypole made no reply; and presently we
had issued from the conservatory, and stood for a few moments on the
terrace. 'How beautiful!' said your sister, as she raised her eyes to
the glorious heavens, sparkling with countless stars, whose brilliancy
was showered on the now sleeping earth--'Yes, beautiful!' repeated
Milton; and his voice, so musical, yet melancholy, thrilled to my inmost
soul: 'Beautiful!' he said again, as if the word was pleasant in his
ears; 'and yet the time is coming fast when I shall behold that beauty
no more--when I shall be more humbled than the poor insects upon which I
may now heedlessly tread--they creep, but see; I shall be a thing of
darkness in the midst of light--irrevocably dark!--total
eclipse!--without the hope of day! Your pardon, Lady; but is it not
strange, that life's chiefest blessing should be enthroned in such a
tender ball, when feeling is diffused all over us?'--'The Maker must be
the best judge,' replied your sister.--''Tis true,' he said; 'and the
same hand that wounds can heal. I will not sorrow, if I can refrain from
grief, though it is hard to bear; yet often, when I look upon my
daughters, I think how sad 'twill be when I no more can trace their
change of form and feature. And this deep affliction comes upon me in my
manhood's prime:--life in captivity--all around me grows darker each
fair day I live. A bunch of violets was given me this morning; their
fragrance was delicious, yet I could not discern the little yellow germ
that I knew dwelt within their dark blu