The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars.—Hillhouse.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars.—Hillhouse.
And didst thou fear the queen of night,
Poor mute and musing child?
She who, with pure and silver light,
Gladdens the loneliest wild?
Yet her the savage marks serene,
Chequering his clay-built cabin's scene:
Her the polar natives bless,
Bowing low in gentleness,
To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night:
Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps,
Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,
Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps:
E'en the lost maniac loves her light,
Uttering to her, with fixed eye,
Wild symphonies, he knows not why.—
Sad was thy fate, my child, to see,
In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee.
Poor mute and musing child?
She who, with pure and silver light,
Gladdens the loneliest wild?
Yet her the savage marks serene,
Chequering his clay-built cabin's scene:
Her the polar natives bless,
Bowing low in gentleness,
To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night:
Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps,
Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,
Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps:
E'en the lost maniac loves her light,
Uttering to her, with fixed eye,
Wild symphonies, he knows not why.—
Sad was thy fate, my child, to see,
In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee.
215
Being of lonely thought, the world to thee
Was a deep maze, and all things moving on
In darkness and in mystery. But He,
Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon,
What was He?—From thy brow the roses fled
At that eternal question, fathomless and dread!
Was a deep maze, and all things moving on
In darkness and in mystery. But He,
Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon,
What was He?—From thy brow the roses fled
At that eternal question, fathomless and dread!
O, snatched from ignorance and pain,
And taught, with seraph eye,
At yon unmeasured orbs to gaze,
And trace, amid their quenchless blaze,
Thine own high destiny!
Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain,
And led thy doubtful steps to learning's hallowed fane.
And taught, with seraph eye,
At yon unmeasured orbs to gaze,
And trace, amid their quenchless blaze,
Thine own high destiny!
Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain,
And led thy doubtful steps to learning's hallowed fane.
Though from thy guarded lips may press
No word of gratitude or tenderness,—
In the starting tear, the glowing cheek,
With tuneful tongue, the soul can speak;
Her tone is in the sigh,
Her language in the eye,
Her voice of harmony, a life of praise,
Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways.
No word of gratitude or tenderness,—
In the starting tear, the glowing cheek,
With tuneful tongue, the soul can speak;
Her tone is in the sigh,
Her language in the eye,
Her voice of harmony, a life of praise,
Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways.
The tomb shall burst thy fetters. Death sublime
Shall bear away the seal of time,
So long in wo bewailed!
Thou, who no melody of earth hast known,
Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear,
Nor waters murmuring lone,
Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear,
Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphere—
Can speech of mortals tell
What tides of bliss shall swell,
If the first summons to thy wakened ear
Should be the plaudits of thy Savior's love,
The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above?
Shall bear away the seal of time,
So long in wo bewailed!
Thou, who no melody of earth hast known,
Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear,
Nor waters murmuring lone,
Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear,
Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphere—
Can speech of mortals tell
What tides of bliss shall swell,
If the first summons to thy wakened ear
Should be the plaudits of thy Savior's love,
The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above?
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