Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Dumb Child
The Dumb Child.
She is my only girl,—I asked for her as some most precious thing;For all unfinished was love's jewelled ring Till set with this soft pearl.The shade that time brought forth I could not see,So pure, so perfect, seemed the gift to be.
Oh! many a soft old tuneI used to sing into that deafened ear,And suffered not the slightest footstep near, Lest she might wake too soon;And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay—Oh, needless care—I might have let them play.
'Twas long ere I believedThat this one daughter might not speak to me;Waited and watched, God knows how patiently, How willingly deceived;Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith,And tended hope until it starved to death!
Oh, if she could but hearFor one short hour, that I her tongue might teachTo call me mother, in the broken speech That thrills the mother's ear!Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred,To the deep music of that lovely word.
My heart it sorely triesTo see her kneel with such a reverent airBeside her brothers, at their evening prayer; Or lift those earnest eyesTo watch our lips, as though our words she knew,Then move her own as she were speaking too.
I've watched her looking upTo the bright wonder of an evening sky,With such a depth of meaning in her eye, That I could almost hopeThe struggling soul would burst its binding cords,And the long pent-up thought flow forth in words.
The song of bird and bee,The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,All the great music to which nature moves, Are wasted melodyTo her—the world of sound a tuneless void,While even silence hath its charm destroyed.
Her face is very fair,Her blue eyes beautiful, of finest mould.Her soft white brow, o'er which in waves of gold. Kippies her shining hair;Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,For He who made it keeps the master-key.
While He the mind withinShould from earth's Babel-clamour be kept freeE'en that His still small voice and step might be Heard at its inner shrine,Through that deep hush of soul with clearer thrill,Then should I grieve? Oh, murmuring heart be still.
She seems to have a senseOf quiet gladness in her noiseless play;She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, Whose voiceless eloquenceTouches all hearts, though I had. once the fearThat even her father would not care for her.
Thank God! it is not so;And when his sons are playing merrily,She comes and leans her head upon his knee. Oh! at such times I knowBy the full eye and tone subdued and mild,How his heart yearns over his silent child.
Not of all gifts bereftE'en now—how could I say she did not speak?What real language lights her eye and cheek. In thanks to Him who leftUnto her soul, yet open avenuesFor joy to enter, and for love to use!
And God, in love, doth giveTo her defect a beauty of its own;And we a deeper tenderness have shown, Through that for which we grieve;Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear—Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.
When that new sense is given,What rapture will its first experience be,That never woke to meaner melody Than the rich songs of heaven,To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,While angels teach the ecstasies of sound.