Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Deaf, Dumb and Blind Girl of the American Asylum at Hartford, Con.
THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL OF THE AMERICAN ASYLUM AT HARTFORD, CON.
See—while her mute companions share
Those joys which ne'er await the blind,
A moral night of deep despair
Descending, wraps her lonely mind.
Yet deem not, though so dark her path
Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot,
Or in her bitter cup of wrath
The healing drop of balm forgot.
No! still with unambitious mind
The needle's patient task to ply,
At the full board her place to find,
Or close in sleep the placid eye,
With Order's unobtrusive charm
Her simple wardrobe to dispose,
To press of guiding care the arm,
And rove where autumn's bounty flows,
With touch so exquisitely true
That vision stands astonish'd by,
To recognize with ardor due
Some friend or benefactor nigh,—
Her hand 'mid childhood's curls to place,
From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
Are pleasures left for her to feel.
And often o'er her hour of thought
Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
As if the living gems she caught
On wit's fantastic drapery,
As if at length, relenting skies
In pity to her doom severe,
Had bade a mimic morning rise,
The chaos of the soul to cheer.
But who, with energy divine,
May tread that undiscover'd maze,
Where Nature in her curtain'd shrine
The strange and new-born thought surveys?
Where quick perception shrinks to find
On eye and ear the envious seal,
And wild ideas throng the mind,
That palsied speech must ne'er reveal;
Where Instinct, like a robber bold,
Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain,
And leaping o'er her barrier cold,
Proclaims the proud precaution vain.
Say, who shall with magician's wand
That elemental mass compose,
Where young affections slumber fond
Like germs unwak'd 'mid wintry snows?
Who, in that undecypher'd scroll,
The mystic characters may see,
Save He who reads the secret soul,
And holds of life and death the key?
Then, on thy midnight journey roam,
Poor wandering child of rayless gloom,
And to thy last and narrow home,
Drop gently from this living tomb.
Yes,—uninterpreted and drear,
Toil onward with benighted mind,
Still kneel at prayers thou can'st not hear,
And grope for truth thou may'st not find.
No scroll of friendship, or of love,
Must breathe soft language o'er thy heart,
Nor that blest Book which guides above,
Its message to thy soul impart.
But Thou, who didst on Calvary die,
Flows not thy mercy wide and free?
Thou, who didst rend of Death the tie
Is Nature's seal too strong for thee?
And Thou, Oh Spirit pure! whose rest
Is with the lowly contrite train,
Illume the temple of her breast,
And cleanse of latent ill the stain,
That she, whose pilgrimage below,
Was night that never hoped a morn,
That undeclining day may know
Which of eternity is born.
The great transition who can tell!
When from the ear its seal shall part,
Where countless lyres seraphic swell,
And holy transport thrills the heart:
Whin the chain'd tongue, forbid to pour
The broken melodies of time,
Shall to the highest numbers soar
Of everlasting praise sublime:
When those veil'd orbs, which ne'er might trace
The features of their kindred clay,
Shall scan of Deity, the face,
And glow with rapture's deathless ray.