A Blind-Born's Song
OSay ! what is that Thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the Blessings of the Sight,
Tell your poor blind Boy?
You talk of wond'rous Things you see,
You say the Sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Then make it Day or Night?
My Day or Night myself I make,
When e'er I wake or play,
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always Day.
With heavy Sighs, I often hear,
You mourn my hopeless Woe;
But sure , with Patience I may bear
A Lost I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have,
My Cheer of Mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a King,
Altho' a poor blind Boy.