Today is the Quartercentenary of the birth of John Milton, a towering presence in English poetry and a significant player in the political theory and machinations of the 17th Century. The masterpiece Paradise Lost is a tour de force of theology as well as poetry, though for some a theology inadequately Christian. Milton's influence on poetry, and his contributions to political and moral thought have decisively shaped English culture.
Years ago I learned by heart his sonnet "On His Blindness", one of the most moving statements of non-resignation I know; I'm not at all sure that in this sonnet Milton is resigned to providence, and I sense behind the poem lies deep complaint, not silenced by the reply of "patience to prevent that murmur". In any case today is Milton's 400th birthday, and I've been reading some of those lines which poured from the quill of "that one Talent". Here's his sonnet "On His Blindness":
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
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 milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
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