THE BLIND HARPER.
Rest thee—companion of my toilsome way—
And thou, my gentle guide. Beside the fount
That with its plashing coolness bathes my hand,
And sends its dewy moisture to my brow,
We’ll sit—till the fresh breath of evening comes
To cool the burning air;—for I am faint
Beneath the burden of the summer’s day—
And feel my limbs bowed down with weariness.
And thy step too, my boy, has been less light,
Thy tone less buoyant, than when morning’s flowers
Were fresh beneath thy feet.—How faintly now
Rustles the drooping foliage—as the wind
Comes like the breath of infancy, when hushed
In quiet slumber on the mother’s breast.
How beautiful must be this visible world
To those whose sense can drink the glorious light
Shed over nature’s face! for whom the day,
Fresh dawning, brings in newer loveliness—
The rich and treasured beauties which the earth
Pours forth in glad profusion!—For my soul,
A world of unpierced darkness lies before;
The past, a waste where memory cannot pluck
One solitary blossom. Closed to me
Are nature’s stores of joy. In vain the sun
Sheds blessings down from his ambrosial throne
Upon a thousand charms—the lone old man
Beholds them not. The voice of birds in spring,
The whispered melody of murmuring streams,
The hum of insects, and the myriad tones
Of love and life, that on the liberal air,
Fraught with the perfumes of the breezy flowers,
Float like the breathings of some heavenly dream—
Are tuneless music to a weary heart.
And thou, my harp—last solace! though thy notes
Are dear to him who wakes them—though the wild,
Sad melody thou utterest brings back
The visions of my youth and all I loved;
Yet soon the hand that trembles o’er thee now
Shall strike thy chords no more;—withered and rent,
Like me, thou’lt lie neglected—rudely swept
By stern and wintry winds, or crushed beside
Thy master’s grave—his fitting monument.