Bob-Thin Or the poorhouse fugitive: By W. J. Linton: Illustrated by T. Sibson-- W. B. Scott-- E. Duncan-- W. J. Linton |
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 | Bob-Thin |  |
36
That Sleep, mother of calm, is his,
And all the soul-entangling bliss
Her love can harbinger; he seems
Bathed in delight, intoxicate
With his new life. Hath he the key
Of Faëry turn'd, and changed his state?
Or hath he learn'd the mystery
Of loveliness?—the eye perceives
That only which the heart believes.
The windows of the heart were dull;
Now all around is beautiful.
And One beside him doth relate
The meaning of their festival:
How met they to commemorate
A great deliverance,—from all
The ancient tyrannies of Wrong—
The tyrannies of rank-grown Will,
And sordid Trade (more selfish still),
And all the errors that belong
To the blind worker for self-gain,
And all the miseries in his train
Close following—corroding care,
And waste of energies, despair
Heart-deadening.—Even while he spoke,
This song the chain of memory broke.
| Bob-Thin | |