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THE BLIND BOY. - Colley Cibber.
O say what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ? What are the blessings of thy sight?
0, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake,
With me 't were always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear
A loss 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,
Although a poor blind boy.
THE LAME BROTHER.
THE LAME BROTHER. — Miss Lamb.
My parents sleep both in one grave;
My only friend 's a brother,
We are to one another.
A fine, stout boy I knew him once,
With active form and limb; Whene'er he leaped, or jumped, or ran,
0, I was proud of him!
He leaped too far, he got a hurt,
He now does limping go; When I think on his active days,
My heart is full of woe.
He leans on me, when we to school
Do every morning walk;
He loves to hear my talk,
The theme of which is mostly this,
What things he once could do; He listens pleased, — then sadly says,
“Sister, I lean on you!”
Then I reply, “Indeed you 're not
Scarce any weight at all, -
To memory recall.
· Led by your little elder hand,
I learned to walk alone; Careful you used to be of me,
My little brother John.
“How often, when my young feet tired,
You've carried me a mile, And still together we can sit,
And rest a little while.
“For our kind master never minds,
If we're the very last;
With walking on too fast.”
TRANSLATED FROM HERDER, BY MARY HOWITT.
AMONG green, pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so wild, Was set a marble image
Of the Virgin and the child.
Here, oft, on summer evenings,
A lovely boy would rove,
That sanctified the grove.
Oft sat his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
Was once a child like him.
" And now from highest heaven
He doth look down each day, And sees whate'er thou doest,
And hears what thou dost say!”
Thus spoke his tender mother;
And on an evening bright, When the red, round sun descended
Mid clouds of crimson light,
Again the boy was playing,
And earnestly said he, “O beautiful child Jesus,
Come down and play with me!
“I will find thee flowers the fairest,
And weave for thee a crown; I will get thee ripe, red strawberries,
If thou wilt but come down !
“O holy, holy Mother,
Put him down from off thy knee; For in these silent meadows
There are none to play with me!"
Thus spoke the boy so lovely,
The while his mother heard, And on his prayer she pondered,
But spoke to him no word.
That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
There, playing with the boy.
" And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me, Rich blessing shall be given
A thousand-fold to thee!
“For in the fields of heaven
Thou shalt roam with me at will, And of bright fruits celestial
Thou shalt have, dear child, thy fill!"
Thus tenderly and kindly
The fair child Jesus spoke ; And, full of careful musings,
The anxious mother woke.
And thus it was accomplished :
In a short month and a day, That lovely boy, so gentle,
Upon his deathbed lay.
And thus he spoke in dying:
“O mother dear, I see The beautiful child Jesus
A coming down to me!
“ And in his hand he beareth
Bright flowers as white as snow, And red and juicy strawberries,
Dear mother, let me go!"
He died — but that fond mother
Her sorrow did restrain,
And she asked him not again!