  Why sits so long beside you cottage-door That aged man with tresses thin and hoar? Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze, Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze; Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright, As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light. Changeless his mien; not even one flitting trace Of spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face; No feeling moves his venerable head: —He sitteth there—an emblem of the dead! The staff of age lies near him on the seat, His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet, While thus her father rests upon his way, Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind, Soon as she hears his voice,—for he is blind! List! as in tones through deep affection mild He speaks by name to the delighted child! Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss, Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss, And with light hand upon her forehead fair Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair! A beauteous phantom rises through the night For ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight, So clearly imaged both in form and limb, He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim, But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe A sweet restoring fragrance through his breast, Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best. In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee That sanctifies the face of infancy; And the blue softness of her smiling eyes; The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears, Where God's unclouded loveliness appears; Those gleams of soul to every feature given, When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven! And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn, When to the gate his homeward steps return; When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys, And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze! How beams his sightless visage! when the press Of Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness, Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian care His helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair; When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hear With kind enquiry comes unto his ear, And tremulous tells how lovely still must be Those fading beauties that he ne'er must see! Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen, Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green; Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing, To him be known but by its murmuring; And the long leaf that trembles in the breeze Be all that tells him of his native trees; Yet dear to him each viewless object round Familiar to his soul from touch or sound. The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near, Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear: Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strife When the warm summer air is fill'd with life; And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid, Blest is the oak's contemporary shade. Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrude On the still hour of sightless solitude. Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll, Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul —Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend, As to the spot where dwelt a former friend; Mountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd, Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail, And many a woodland interposing vale. Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shade Does memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade! Each craggy pass, where oft in sportive scorn Had sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn; Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood, Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood; Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest day Floated thy bark without the anchor's stay; Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd; Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd, That seems unalter'd yet in form and size, Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies, Rise on thy soul,—on high devotion springs Through Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings, Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound, Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,— For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home. |
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