THE BLIND BOY.

Oh, mother, is it spring once more— The same bright laughing spring That used to come in days of yore With glad and welcome wing? And is the infant primrose born, And peerless daisy child Beneath the bowed and budding thorn, All beautiful and wild? And does the sky break out as blue Between the April show’rs, And smilingly impart its hue To her young vi’let flow’rs? And is the sun, the blessed sun, As dazzling in his might, As glorious now to look upon, As when I loved his light? As when, with clear and happy eye, Beneath that light I strayed, Or in the noonday brilliancy Sought out some cooling shade? And when the spring flow’rs drop away, Will summer days come fast, All rich with bloom—oh, mother, say!— As when I saw them last? Will merry children gambol o’er The meads, or by the brooks— Seek out the wild bee’s honey store In some deep grassy nook? Or where the sparkling waters flow Go wand’ring far away, To cull the tallest reeds that grow, And weave them all the day? And will they climb the tall old trees, And at the topmost height Find birds of beauty, such as these That charm my long, long night? Or ranging o’er the wild morass Pluck the fair bog-down’s head? Or o’er the long and slender grass String berries ripe and red? They will!—but I shall not be there: For me, oh! never more Shall spring put forth her blossoms fair, Or summer shed her store! Yet think not, mother, if I weep, ’Tis for the seasons’ gleam; Or if I gladden in my sleep, ’Tis of such things I dream. No, mother, no?—’tis that thy cheek, Thy smile of tender joy, Thine eye of light, that used to speak Such fondness to thy boy— It is the thought that that dear face— Oh, bitter, bitter pain!— Is blotted out through time and space For ever from my brain! My mother, darling, lay my head Upon thy own lov’d breast, And let thy voice low music shed To lull thy child to rest; And press thy soft and dewy kiss Upon his beating brow, And let him feel, or fancy bliss— ’Tis all that’s left him now. What though the noonday’s sunny prime Can yield unnumbered charms, Give me the silent midnight time That lays me in thy arms. For there I dream of joy and light, The things I once could prize, Ere darkness threw its dreary blight Upon my glad young eyes. And in the same bright dreamy thought, I gaze upon once more My mother’s face, with feeling fraught E’en deeper than of yore. Yet do not weep, my mother dear, Thy love is more than light— Thy soothing hand, thy tender tear, More blessed e’en than sight! And while that hand is clasped in mine, My fault’ring steps to guide, I will not murmur or repine, Or grieve for aught beside. But, mother, when I soar away, From life’s drear darkness free, Oh! shall I not through heaven’s long day Live gazing upon thee! W. C. L.