 | Young Arthur |  |
THE ORPHAN.
The rain it fell, and the wind it blew,
And the heath was drear, and the flocks they drew
Beneath an oak that shelter cast;
And there sat a shivering boy, aghast;
Drench'd by the dropping and numb'd by the blast.
His clothes were torn, and his feet were bare,
His face was famine, his eye, despair:
I reach'd the oak, and I mark'd him well,
His sighs were deep and his tears fast fell —
And the foot which the innocent sorrow can't stay
Ne'er shall it follow a flowery way.
And the heath was drear, and the flocks they drew
Beneath an oak that shelter cast;
And there sat a shivering boy, aghast;
Drench'd by the dropping and numb'd by the blast.
His clothes were torn, and his feet were bare,
His face was famine, his eye, despair:
I reach'd the oak, and I mark'd him well,
His sighs were deep and his tears fast fell —
And the foot which the innocent sorrow can't stay
Ne'er shall it follow a flowery way.
I look'd request, and he look'd a prayer;
And I learnt his grief, und I sooth'd his care;
A wanderer he, and his want severe,
And his were the orphan's sigh and tear;
Sacred to all who hold heaven's aid dear.
The orphan's tear is an heavenly dew
Which ne'er fell on heart but there heart's ease grew;
And the sound which the orphan's sigh imparts
Is the whisper of Heaven to human hearts.
And the ear that the innocent sorrow can't win
Ne'er shall let heavenly harmony in.
And I learnt his grief, und I sooth'd his care;
A wanderer he, and his want severe,
And his were the orphan's sigh and tear;
Sacred to all who hold heaven's aid dear.
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Which ne'er fell on heart but there heart's ease grew;
And the sound which the orphan's sigh imparts
Is the whisper of Heaven to human hearts.
And the ear that the innocent sorrow can't win
Ne'er shall let heavenly harmony in.
His eyes he rais'd, and his hand I took,
And there was a blessing in his look:
It made the trembling tear so bright —
As when, at the noon of a cheerless night,
Some chance star beams it's benevolent light.
And he reach'd my cot, and he bless'd it too,
For where innocence treads there joys pursue;
And, to fancy, the innocent steps ne'er cease
To beat time to the song of the angel, Peace;
And the heart that can harden at innocent woe,
Shall never that harmony's healing know.
And there was a blessing in his look:
It made the trembling tear so bright —
As when, at the noon of a cheerless night,
Some chance star beams it's benevolent light.
And he reach'd my cot, and he bless'd it too,
For where innocence treads there joys pursue;
And, to fancy, the innocent steps ne'er cease
To beat time to the song of the angel, Peace;
And the heart that can harden at innocent woe,
Shall never that harmony's healing know.
He bless'd my cot, for his grateful smile
Was a sun-beam there; an endearing wile;
The winter pass'd and he cheer'd its gloom;
Spring smil'd, and the summer laughed off with bloom,
And thro' autumn no care in my cot found room.
And winter return'd, and return'd with joy,
But his smile, like Old Craft's, was a mere decoy;
He came with grace, but he went with gall,
And, passing, threw o'er my child the pall!
And the soul that the innocent death shall die
Shall be bless'd like the orphan who wakes my sigh.
Was a sun-beam there; an endearing wile;
The winter pass'd and he cheer'd its gloom;
Spring smil'd, and the summer laughed off with bloom,
And thro' autumn no care in my cot found room.
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But his smile, like Old Craft's, was a mere decoy;
He came with grace, but he went with gall,
And, passing, threw o'er my child the pall!
And the soul that the innocent death shall die
Shall be bless'd like the orphan who wakes my sigh.
So sung the sage, and wip'd the tear,
His orphan treasure lost;
But Arthur's looks his sorrow cheer,
And thaw his age's frost.
His orphan treasure lost;
But Arthur's looks his sorrow cheer,
And thaw his age's frost.
Be Hubert now our subject made,
And that mysterious night
When Ellen's eyes the babe survey'd
With wonder and delight.
The infant, lock'd in angel sleep,
On Ellen's pillow plac'd,
Hubert, to sound the myst'ry deep,
The billet's meaning trac'd.
And that mysterious night
When Ellen's eyes the babe survey'd
With wonder and delight.
The infant, lock'd in angel sleep,
On Ellen's pillow plac'd,
Hubert, to sound the myst'ry deep,
The billet's meaning trac'd.
And these the words the scroll convey'd:
“The child is Arthus nam'd;
“Doubt not your pains shall be repaid,
“The boy hereafter claim'd.”
“The child is Arthus nam'd;
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“The boy hereafter claim'd.”
And every year by varied ways,
But none which they could trace,
Gold for the infant's rearing pays,
Address'd with words of grace.
But none which they could trace,
Gold for the infant's rearing pays,
Address'd with words of grace.
| Young Arthur | |