POEMS.
65
I boast no teasure but a heart,
'Tis thine, and thine shall still remain;
I boast no science, but the art
To wake sweet Music's plaintive strain:
Yet if it yields one pleasing thought,
When thus my hands the lyre employ,
Oh! 'tis because 'twas Mary taught
That science to her poor Blind Boy.
'Tis thine, and thine shall still remain;
I boast no science, but the art
To wake sweet Music's plaintive strain:
Yet if it yields one pleasing thought,
When thus my hands the lyre employ,
Oh! 'tis because 'twas Mary taught
That science to her poor Blind Boy.
Though knowledge hides her stores from me,
And Glory's Clarions vainly call,
In lieu of these Heaven gave me Thee,
And giving Thee, it gave me all!
And while of love I hear thee tell,
And cherish hope, and promise joy,
Oh! Kings and Sages sure might well
With envy view the poor Blind Boy!
And Glory's Clarions vainly call,
In lieu of these Heaven gave me Thee,
And giving Thee, it gave me all!
And while of love I hear thee tell,
And cherish hope, and promise joy,
Oh! Kings and Sages sure might well
With envy view the poor Blind Boy!
Oft, when of loss of sight I speak,
I hear thee breathe a tender sigh;
And oft I feel on Arthur's cheek
A tear, which fell from Mary's eye:
Which when I feel, which when I hear,
Not Thrones could yield me half such joy
As that one sigh, as that one tear,
Which Pity gives the poor Blind Boy.
I hear thee breathe a tender sigh;
And oft I feel on Arthur's cheek
A tear, which fell from Mary's eye:
Which when I feel, which when I hear,
Not Thrones could yield me half such joy
As that one sigh, as that one tear,
Which Pity gives the poor Blind Boy.
