84
POEMS.
THE BLIND MAN TO HIS CHILD.
My gentle child, my gleesome one, thy father's joy and pride,
Come rest thy bright and glowing form these aged limbs beside:
I'm pining for thy silv'ry laugh; I want thy joyous tone,
For the softness of its melody can soothe this heart alone.
Come nearer, sweet one! touch me; lay thine hand upon my brow:
I've missed thy bounding step all day; oh! do not leave me now.
Nay, nay, I did not mean to chide: full well, mine own, I know
That thy light footsteps long to glide the sunny vales below;
I must not keep thee ever near, though lonely seems the day,
And mournfully the hours pass by, to me, when thou'rt away;
For these sightless orbs can never greet the forms so lov'd before,
And the joyous things of earth may meet their stricken glance no more.
Come rest thy bright and glowing form these aged limbs beside:
I'm pining for thy silv'ry laugh; I want thy joyous tone,
For the softness of its melody can soothe this heart alone.
Come nearer, sweet one! touch me; lay thine hand upon my brow:
I've missed thy bounding step all day; oh! do not leave me now.
Nay, nay, I did not mean to chide: full well, mine own, I know
That thy light footsteps long to glide the sunny vales below;
I must not keep thee ever near, though lonely seems the day,
And mournfully the hours pass by, to me, when thou'rt away;
For these sightless orbs can never greet the forms so lov'd before,
And the joyous things of earth may meet their stricken glance no more.
