Poems (Lewis)/The Blind Lover

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

THE BLIND LOVER.

 

It's true, my Love, of precious light
These sightless orbs admit no ray;
Dark are to me the Stars of Night,
And blush of morn, and blaze of day.
Yet think not, Sweet, the want of eyes
Can e'er thine Arthur's mind annoy,
While Mary's hand that want supplies,
And kindly guides her poor blind Boy.

I boast no teasure but a heart,
'Tis thine, and thine shall still remain;
I boast no science, but the art
To wake sweet Music's plaintive strain:
Yet if it yields one pleasing thought,
When thus my hands the lyre employ,
Oh! 'tis because 'twas Mary taught
That science to her poor Blind Boy.

Though knowledge hides her stores from me,
And Glory's Clarions vainly call,
In lieu of these Heaven gave me Thee,
And giving Thee, it gave me all!
And while of love I hear thee tell,
And cherish hope, and promise joy,
Oh! Kings and Sages sure might well
With envy view the poor Blind Boy!

Oft, when of loss of sight I speak,
I hear thee breathe a tender sigh;
And oft I feel on Arthur's cheek
A tear, which fell from Mary's eye:
Which when I feel, which when I hear,
Not Thrones could yield me half such joy
As that one sigh, as that one tear,
Which Pity gives the poor Blind Boy.

Let others Independence prize,
And proudly boast their actions free;
Unenvying, I their power despise,
And boast, that I depend on Thee!
Depend for guidance, food, and aid,
For every comfort, every joy
Of Him. . . . .who but for Thee, dear Maid,
Would be a friendless poor Blind Boy!

Then love me still, nor e'er forsake
A Being so forlorn as I!
Oh! love me still, nor bid to break
His heart, who robbed of Thee must die!
That hour, which hears thee say "Adieu!"
Will love and life at once destroy:
But love me, love me still, . . . . . .and who
Is blest like Thee, thou poor Blind Boy!