Poems (Lewis)/The Blind Lover
THE BLIND LOVER.
It's true, my Love, of precious lightThese 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 eyesCan 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 artTo 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 taughtThat 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 wellWith 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 cheekA tear, which fell from Mary's eye:Which when I feel, which when I hear,Not Thrones could yield me half such joyAs 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 joyOf Him. . . . .who but for Thee, dear Maid,Would be a friendless poor Blind Boy!
Then love me still, nor e'er forsakeA Being so forlorn as I!Oh! love me still, nor bid to breakHis 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 whoIs blest like Thee, thou poor Blind Boy!