POEMS BY THE BLIND.

A JUNE MORNING.

Early one morn in leafy June, When brooks and birds were all in tune, A maiden left her quiet home In meadows and in fields to roam. She wandered on, in cheerful mood, Through verdant fields and leafy wood. At length she paused to rest awhile Upon a little rustic stile. She made a pretty picture there, With her bright, curling, golden hair, And dress of white, and eyes of blue, And ribbons of the self-same hue. And while she sat absorbed in thought, A form approached. She heeded not Until a hand was gently laid Upon the shoulders of the maid. Then, looking up in sweet surprise, She saw a pair of jet-black eyes, A perfect form of manly grace, A handsome, open, honest face. Then said the maid, in voice so clear: "How did you know that I was here?" Said he: "I sought you at your home, They told me you had hither come, And so, I came, this bright June day, To say what I've so longed to say. When first we met in by-gone days, You charmed me with your winning ways. Since then the time has quickly flown, Each day to me you've dearer grown, And you can brighten all my life If you will but become my wife." She raised her eyes unto his own, And in their depths a new light shone, While in a voice so soft and low She said: "I will; it shall be so." And then they homeward took their way, While birds were singing sweet and gay, Now oft they bless that day in June When brooks and birds were all atune.

GOLD WORSHIPPERS. BY L.V. HALL.

Within a faded volume, dim and old, I find this musty maxim tersely given: "The magic key to human hearts is gold, But love unlocks the crystal gates of heaven." Our homes are not so happy as of old, Our hearts are not so merry as of yore, We find that nought can purchase love but gold, That virtue begs a pittance at the door. There was a time when Beauty bore the sway; There was a time when Wit the world controlled; There was a time when Valor won the day; But now the noble knight that wins, is Gold. The ancient Ghebers worshipped light and fire; The Brahmins bowed to gods of wood and stone; But now, 'neath marble dome and gilded spire, The deity adored is gold alone. It overlays the altar and the cross; It dignifies the monarch and the clown; The wealth of moral worth is counted dross; The million miser wears the golden crown. 'Tis time this mad idolatry should cease; 'Tis time her prophets and her priests were slain; Let earth do homage to the Prince of Peace, And the reign of gold shall be the golden reign. The Christ came not with pomp and princely show; His followers were lowly and despised; He courted not the high, nor shunned the low; A very God in human flesh disguised. He brought a marvelous message from above: A gift of grace and pardon from the King. He claimed no tithe or tribute but of love— A penitent and contrite heart to bring. He banished brokers from the house of prayer; He raised the dead and made the dumb to speak; Unsealed the blinded eye, unstopped the ear; He fed the poor and lifted up the weak. The way to life, He said, is plain and straight, It leads to joy, and peace, and heavenly light The way to death is through a golden gate And broad the way that leads to endless night. Shall we accept the sacrifice he made And enter in the Shepherd's sheltering fold? Or, like the Judas who his Lord betrayed, Sell soul and hope of Heaven for miser's gold? Say, which is best, true piety or gold? This metal worship or the living God? Ye cannot have them both, so we are told, See to it then which pathway shall be trod. Array your idol in his robes of state! Set up his image on his golden throne! Throw open wide the temple's gilded gate, And thus proclaim that gold is God alone! Or else array yourselves in plain attire; Set up the love of Christ in every heart Let each affection feel its fervent fire, And in this money-worship bear no part. Now make your choice between your gold and heaven; Buy all the sinful pleasures wealth can bring; Increase them through the years to mortals given And die, at last—a beggar—not a king. Yes, make your choice between your gold and heaven; Find peace and pardon in a Saviour's blood; Freely bestow what, free to you, is given, And meet, at last, the welcoming smile of God.

THE DOUBLE NIGHT. BY MORRISON HEADY, Of the Kentucky Institution for the Blind. To the shades of Milton and Beethoven.

"Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve— That column—of true majesty in man— Assist me—I will thank you in the grave."—

Night Thoughts.

DARKNESS.

Go, bring the harp that once with dirges thrilled, But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers, Save when the faltering hand untimely chilled Steals o'er its chords in broken numbers. It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell, Where echoless Silence tolls the passing bell, Where shadowless Darkness weaves the shrouding spell Of parting joys and parting years. Go, bring it me, sweet friend, and ere we part, A lay I'll frame, so sad 'twill wring thy heart Of all its pity, all its tears As fitful shadows round me gather fast, And solemn watch my thoughts are holding, Comes Memory, Panoramist of the Past. The rising morn of life unfolding, Now fade from view all living toil and strife; Time past is now my present; death, my life; All that exists is obsolete; While o'er my soul there steals the pensive glow Of sainted joys that young years only know, And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw Their lengthening shadows at my feet. I see a morn domed in by pictured skies; The dew is on its budding pleasures, The gladsome, early, sunlight on it lies, And to it from this dark my pent soul flies, As misers nightly to their treasures. And, as I look, I see a glittering train, In airy throng, across the dreamlit plain, Come dancing, dancing from the tomb; Flitting in phantom silence on my sight; In silence, yet all beautiful and bright, The ghosts of joy, and hope, and bloom. But passed me by; their lines of fading light Tell of decay, of youth's and beauty's blight; Then, like spent meteors shimmering through the night, The vision melts in closing gloom. Another day in sable vesture clad, All drear with new blown pleasures blighted, Comes blindly groping through the twilight sad, As one in moonless mists benighted. O! Day unhappy! could oblivion roll Its slumberous billows o'er my shrinking soul, Thee scarce I could, e'en then, forget: A life, bereft of light, no memory need To tell of night that ne'er to morning leads, Of day that is forever set. From yonder sky the noonward sun was torn, Ere day dawn's rosy hues had banished; A starless midnight blotted out the morn, Ere childhood's dewy joys had vanished. No slow paced twilight ushered in the night; A spangled web, the Heavens were swept from sight; The full moon fled and never waned; And all of Earth that's beautiful and fair. Became as shadows in the empty air— A boundless, blackened blank remained! I heard the gates of night, with sullen jar, Close on the cheerful day forever; Hope from my sky sank like the evening star, Which finds in darkness, zenith never, For scarce she knew, blithe offspring of the day, How there to shine, where night held boundless sway; And shapes of beauty, grace and bloom, And fair-formed joys that once around me danced, Bewildered grew, where sunbeams never glanced, And lost their way in that wide gloom. Pensylla, o'er me many sunless years Have flown, since last the beams of heaven, The soft ascent of morn through smiles and tears, The sweet descent of dreamy even— Or sight of wood and fields in green arrayed, Vernal resplendence or Autumnal shade, Or Winter's gloom or Summer's blaze; Bird, beast or works that trophy man's abode, Or he divine, the image of his God, Met my rapt gaze. Look, gentle guide! Thou see'st the imperial sun Forth sending far his ambient glory, O'er laughing fields and frowning highlands dun, O'er glancing streams and woodlands hoary. In orient clouds he steeps his amber hair, With beams far slanting through the flaming air, Bids Earth, with all her hymning sound, declare The praise of everlasting light. On my bared head I felt his pitying ray, He loves to shine on my benighted way; But ah, Pensylla! he brings to me no day— Nor yet his setting, deeper night. Prime gift of God, that veil'st His sovereign throne, And dost of Him in sense remind me— Blest light of Heaven, why hast thou from me flown? To these sad shades, why hast resigned me? On pinions of surpassing beauty borne, When Nature hails the glad advance of morn, In thine unsullied loveliness. Thou com'st; but to my darkened eyes in vain— My night, e'en in the noon of thy domain, Yields not to thee, since joy of thine again Can ne'er my dayless being bless.

SILENCE. Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night, In drearier depths my being steeping, Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite, With muffled tread comes creeping, creeping. Before me close her smothering curtain swings, And o'er my life a shadeless shadow flings; Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man, And set my limits to the narrow span Of but an arm's length here below. O, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun? Where turn me, this side death and heaven? Almost I would my course on earth were run, And all to Night and Silence given! I turn to man: can he but with me mourn? Alike we're helpless, and, as bubbles borne, We to a common haven float. To Him, th' All-seeing and All-hearing One, Behold, I turn! More hid than he there's none, More silent none, none more remote! Alas, Pensylla, stay that pious tear! Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear, Like music when the soul is dreaming; Like music dropping from a far off sphere, Heard by the good, when life's end draweth near. It faintly comes, a spirit seeming, The sounds at once entrance me, ear and soul: The voice of winds and waves, the thunder's roll. The steed's proud neigh, and lamb's meek plaint, The hum of bees, and vesper hymn of birds, The rural harmony of flocks and herds, The song of joy, or praise, and man's sweet words— Come to me fainter—yet more faint Was my poor soul to God's great works so dull. That they from her must hide forever? Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful, For me, ingrate, that we must sever? For by sweet scented airs that round me blow, By transient showers, the sun's impassioned glow, And smell of woods and fields, alone I know Of Spring's approach, and Summer's bloom; And by the pure air, void of odors sweet, By noontide beams, low slanting, without heat, By rude winds, cumbering snows, and hazardous sleet, Of Autumn's blight and Winter's gloom As at the entrance of an untrod cave, I shrink—so hushed the shades and sombre. This death of sense makes life a breathing grave, A vital death, a waking slumber! 'Tis as the light itself of God were fled— So dark is all around, so still, so dead; Nor hope of change, one ray I find! Yet must submit. Though fled fore'er the light, Though utter silence bring me double night, Though to my insulated mind, Knowledge her richest pages ne'er unfold, And "human face divine" I ne'er behold— Yet must submit, must be resigned!

TO THE SHADES.

To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night, Great exile once from day's dominion bright, Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory, Like some wide orb of new created light, Rose, in the world, bewildering mortals' sight— I'll sing till earth's young hills grow hoary! For what of joy I've found in life's dark way, And what of excellence have reached I may, Much, much is due thy wondrous rhyme, Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth, Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth, Of Heaven, e'er angels sang of time: Of light, that o'er the embryon tumult broke, Of earth, when all the stars symphonious woke, Till man, as if from Heaven a seraph spoke, Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime. Day closes on the earth his one bright eye, That Night, her starry lids unsealing, May ope her thousand in a loftier sky, God's higher mysteries revealing. So when thy day from thee its light withdrew, And o'er the night its rueful shadows threw, And "from the cheerful ways of men" Thy steps cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes, As night with stars, piercing thy shrouded skies, And proving most illumined then, When darkest seeming, soared on cherub wings— Those star-eyed wings—higher than ever springs The beam of day, to see, and tell of things Invisible to mortal ken. O'er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll Till man to live, who to them hearkened; Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul, Shall shine when yon proud sun is darkened. Thee, now, methinks, I see, O bard divine! Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine, And God's full love is pleased on thee to shine, Still by the heavenly Muses fired, And starred among the angelic minstrel band, The sacred lyre thou sway'st with sovereign hand, While seraphs, in awed rapture, round thee stand, As one by God himself inspired. Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound, Once exiled from thy realm, yet not discrowned— Assist me; since my spirit, thrilling With thy surpassing strains, is mute, spell bound; For through the hush of years they still resound, With music weird my spent ear filling. When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell, And Earth born Music sang her sad farewell; Thy mighty Genius, as in scorn, Arose in silent majesty to dwell, Where from symphonic spheres thou heard'st to swell, As on celestial breezes borne, Sounds, scarce by angels heard, e'en in their dreams; Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes, And pouring down in rich pellucid streams, Filled organ grand and resonant horn; With rarest sweetness touched each dulcet string, Made martial bugle and bold clarion ring, Soft flute provoked like the lone bird of spring, To warble lays of love forlorn; Woke shrilly reed to many a pastoral note Thrilled witching lyre and lips melodious smote, Till earth, in tuneful ether, seemed to float— As when first sang the stars of morn! Till wondering angels were entranced to chime, With harp and choral tongue, thy strains sublime And bear thy soul beyond the reach of time, Heaven's halls harmonious to adorn. Ah, me! could I with ken angelic, scan Celestial glories hid from mortal man, I'd deem this night a day supernal! Could music, borne from some far singing sphere, Float sweetly down and thrill my stricken ear, I'd pray this hush might be eternal!

RESIGNATION.

Pensylla, look! With tremulous points of fire, The sun, red-sinking lights yon distant spire O'er leafy hill and blossoming meadows, Spreads wide and level his departing beams, Then sinks to rest, as one sure of sweet dreams, 'Mid pillowing clouds and curtaining shadows. Night draws her lucid shade o'er sky and earth; Solemn and bright, Heaven's starry eyes look forth; The evening hymn of praise and song of mirth Rise gratefully from man's abode. O, Night! I love her sombre majesty! 'Tis sweet, her double solitude, to me! Pensylla, leave me now! Alone I'd be With Darkness, Silence and my God. O Thou, whose shadow is but light's excess, The echo of whose voice but silentness, Whose light and music, half expended, Would flood, dissolve the sphery frame; 'twixt whom And man no endless night can throw its gloom Till long Eternity is ended— Which ne'er shall end—to thee, my trust, I turn! To one, for whom in vain thy lamps now burn, A hearing deign; nor from thy footstool spurn The prayer of an imprisoned mind. Father, thy sun is set; night veils the world, That orbs more beauteous be to man unfurled, Then in my Night, let me but find New realms, where thought and fancy may rejoice; Let its long silence ne'er displace Thy voice From whispering hope and peace, 'twere my choice To be thus smitten deaf and blind! Fill me with light and music from above, And so inspire with truth, faith, courage, love, That Thou and man my work can well approve— Father, to all I'm then resigned! Harp of the mournful voice, now fare thee well! My sad song ended, ended is thy spell. Perchance thine echoes, memory haunting, May oft awaken, shadowing forth the swell Of long sung monody and long tolled knell, And o'er the dead past, dirges chanting; But for me, ever hang in Sorrow's hall! Bid Night and Silence spread oblivion's pall O'er earthly blooming joys, that seared must fall And leave the stricken soul to weep:— Ever, till this devoted head be hoar, And the swart angel whispering at the door; When I thy slumbers may disturb once more. Ere double night bring double sleep, Till then, I sing in happier, bolder strain: What's lost to me is God's; what's left, for pain Or joy still His: and endless day, His reign: And reckoning of my Night He'll keep!

AUTUMN. BY ELLENOR J. JONES, Of the Indiana Institution.

Oh Autumn, sweet sad Autumn queen, With robe of golden brown, Our hearts are bowed with grief and pain, As each leaf flutters down. In every drooping flow'ret, In every leafless tree, By warbling birds deserted, We find some trace of thee. Thou'rt lovely, oh, so lovely, And yet how brief thy stay, Why is it all things beautiful Must droop and fade away? All, all thy gorgeous painted leaves, With colors bright and gay, Were touched by nature's magic brush, Then rudely cast away. And thus our dearest hopes are crushed, By fate's relentless will, Like withered leaves they pass away— But peace, sad heart, be still. Thou too must breast the adverse wind, Be wildly tempest-tossed, Perhaps when thou art hushed in death, Thou'lt meet the loved and lost. But for this sweetly, solemn thought That thrills us with delight, This life, so marred by grief and pain, Could never seem so bright. Then welcome, sweet, sad Autumn days, Though brief the hallowed reign, For every smile must have its tear, And every joy its pain.

A TIME FOR ALL THINGS. BY ELLEN COYN, Of the Arkansas Institution.

I sat down at the window, where I oft had calmed my ruffled feeling, For summer evening's balmy air Has for the wounded spirit healing. That morning I had been quite glad, For hope had prospects bright in keeping, But fortune changed, and I was sad, And there I sat in silence weeping. 'Tis vain I said to hope for good, Or cherish bliss for one short hour, If morn puts forth a fragrant bud, Ere night 'tis but a withered flower. My Bible lay upon the stand, In which I'd ofttimes found a blessing, I quickly took the book in hand, In hope to learn a useful lesson. I read upon its open page, "There is a time and purpose given, It has been so from age to age, For everything that's under Heaven." 'Tis vain and wrong to wish, I thought, That life with me be always sunny, My cup with bitter never fraught, But always overflown with honey When fortune frowns I'll not despair, I'll only weep away my sorrow, 'Twill ease my heart and brow of care, I'll laugh when joy returns to-morrow.

DRIFTING. BY ELLENOR J. JONES.

We are drifting on the sea of life, Like ships we're tempest-tossed, And 'mid this world of care and strife How many are wrecked and lost! Our vessels are sometimes set afloat, 'Neath a bright and cloudless sky, But far in the distance hid from view, The breakers are sure to lie. Others are launched on an angry sea, When the waves are dashing high, And the wild winds give a ghostly tone, To the curlew's troubled cry. But the good ship Faith is gaily launched, For the pilot, Hope, is there, And Love, with his flaming lamp of light, Maketh all things wondrous fair. Soon Faith is wrecked by a careless word, And beautiful Hope is dead, And Love, with the holy light of life, In an angry moment fled. And thus on the wide wild sea of life, We are drifting day by day, Without one thought of the solemn truth, That we all shall pass away.