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TOWN LAYS.
There is never a note to work his will,
And expression is only a thing of skill ;
With vision blinded, and utterance weak.
He may pipe his soul away,
And never a one of the crowd will hear
The thing that he meant to say.
VIOLIN.
Playing blindly, blindly, blindly,
I have visions none can see ;
Surely Fate hath used me kindly,
Sights of sadness reach not me.
What though the angel music
Doth soar above my head ?
I meekly follow after,
With firm and joyful tread.
It is a good, not evil thing,
To know some songs one cannot sing.
There shone a smiling seraph
Upon the dusty way;
He shook his plumy wings and said
" There comes no failure to the dead,
Ye rise with me one day."
