THE IDIOT BOY.

There is a lowly mountain home

That nestles near a clear blue stream,

A shady nook—a fitting spot

For pilgrim rest, or poet’s dream.

Two tall elm trees their branches fling

Across the humble roof-tree there

While fearlessly the robins sing,

And woodland flowers perfume the air.

Not ten yards from the cottage door

A rocky wall the streamlet meets,

And wildly, quickly dashing o’er

With its rude song the valley greets.

While far and wide the glittering spray

Like showers of diamonds fill the air,

The golden sunbeams with them play

And arch the beauteous rainbow there.

A shelving rock, like semi-bridge,

From the rude bank hangs jutting o’er,

While round the rough and frowning ridge

Twine moss and vine and creeping flower.

A winding pathway, near the stream,

Leads to this wild and dizzy height;

Once gained the waters flash and gleam

Like jewels on the gazer’s sight.

Beyond, the hills, in robe of green,

Mount upward to the calm blue sky,

While at their feet the silver sheen

Of a broad river meets the eye.

Here in this cot, a space below,

A widow dwells in silent grief,

Earth has no balm to sooth her wo,

No magic song, no healing leaf.

Long weary years have slowly fled

Since death first filled her home with gloom.

Numbered her husband with the dead

And traced for her a widow’s doom.

One sunbeam there, one ray of joy

On that low cottage shed its light,

A fair-haired child, an idiot boy

Was to her heart like stars to night.

I’ve seen a vine, a fragile vine,

When strong support had failed,

Around a weaker cling and twine,

Till drooping both in dust they trailed.

I’ve seen a lonely captive find

Sweet solace in his hours of grief,

Yea food for heart, and thought for mind,

In a frail plant—one pale green leaf.

From the damp earth in his lone cell

It sprung to life, sad life awhile,

But there, alas! it could not dwell,

No sunshine shed its cheering smile.

’Twas tended well mid hope and fear,

And watched with all a parent’s care,

Yea, watered daily with a tear,

But could not stay in darkness there.

So in this cot that idiot boy

Was like that leaf to captive sad,

His guileless ways, and childish joy,

Oft made the broken-hearted glad.

Beside him she on earth had nought,

For him all labor, love and prayer,

And he no other playmates sought,

Save birds and flowers, sunlight and air.

Speech was denied him, and not one

Save she who gave him birth alone

His uncouth gestures e’er could read,

Or learn his sorrows, joy or need,

And as, amid the quiet sleep

Of summer noon, a storm will sweep

In sudden wrath, and blackness cast

O’er skies serene a moment past;

So in the spirit of this child

Dark passion, fitful, quick and wild,

Such inward storm would sometimes wake,

Naught but her gaze its power could break;

Her words could bid its fury cease,

The mother’s voice could whisper peace.

Not often thus, but the long hours

Of summer day mid birds and flowers

He’d cheerful spend, or watch the spray

Of dashing waves in their wild play.

And this, indeed, his chief delight,

When airs were bland and skies were bright.

So fixed his gaze, you wondered why,

A child should look so earnestly.

It seemed as if he longed to be

A wave amid those waters free.

His thoughts we know not, but perchance

Some spirit dream was in that glance!

Such as when reason leaves her throne

And fancy reigns supreme alone,

Will lead the helpless captive on

To deeds we fear to think upon.

Some thought as strange, some wish as wild,

We deem possessed this idiot child.

One day he climbed the pathway, where

The rocky bridge seemed hung in air;

Awhile he looked with strange delight

On sparkling wave and rainbow bright;

Then, with a scream so wild and shrill

It made the distant hearer thrill,

He plunged amid those waves and foam,

Like Naiade seeking its lost home.

A moment, and it all was o’er —

He sunk, to rise with life no more.

A schoolboy saw but could not save

The idiot from his watery grave.

Few were the mourners, and some there

With hard heart said, “the widow’s care

Would now be less,” yea, thought that she

From a great burthen thus was free.

Ill judging ones! ye could not know

The depth of that fond mother’s wo.

He surely was not loved the less

Because of his great helplessness —

Nor can we in our weakness tell

He was not loved by God as well —

The smallest bird and flow’ret share

His holy watch and daily care.

That broken link in Nature’s chain

May after death unite again.

The fettered mind! Ah! who can tell

What mysteries in that casket dwell,

When God, alone who holds the key

Shall set the darkened captive free?

One gleam of that electric thought,

Which beauty out of chaos wrought;

One touch of that creative hand

Which loosed prime Nature’s iron band,

To feeblest mind can give the power

On seraph’s wing to mount and soar.

We know not but the soul that lay

Like folded flower in feeble clay,

May open beneath purer skies,

And, fanned by airs of Paradise,

May bloom in beauty fresh and fair

Amid the richer glories there.

E. P.