Fond memory clings to simple things, when greater are forgot;
And oft in fancy I return, to that dear happy spot—
Where 'neath a mother's gentle care (now mouldering in her grave),
I spent the happiest hours I've known, in the garden that she gave.
The Blind Boy.
From murky clouds, fast hurtling round,
Bursts the loud thunder's deafening sound;
Quick follows each electric flash,
Boar after roar, crash after crash!
While torrent-like the rain doth pour.
"Who comes in such a fearful hour?
'Tis poor old Martha's withered form
Thus braves the fury of the storm.
With hurried and unequal tread;
Uncovered, too, that aged head.
What can have happen'd! What's amiss
To bring her through a storm like this?
Run, Harry, to the door, and see
What the poor creature's troubles be!"
Thus said the father to the son.
The boy with willing haste hath run,
