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THE BLIND BOY.

I never saw my father's face;
Yet, on his forehead when I place
My hand and feel the wrinkles there,
Left less by time than anxious care,
I fear the world has sights of wo

To knit the brows of manhood so.
I sit upon my father's knee

He'd love me less if I could see.

I never saw my mother's smile :
Her gentle tones my heart beguile -
They fall, like distant melody,

They are so mild and sweet to me.
She murmurs not my mother dear!
Though sometimes I have kissed the tear
From her soft cheek, to tell the joy
One smiling word would give her boy.

Right merry was I every day!
Fearless to run about and play
With sisters, brothers, friends and all,
To answer to their sudden call,
To join the ring, to speed the chase,
To find each playmate's hiding-place,
And pass my hand across his brow

To tell him I could do it now!

THE BLIND BOY.

Yet, though delightful flew the hours,
So passed in childhood's peaceful bowers.
When all were gone to school but I,
I used to sit at home and sigh;
And though I never longed to view
The earth so green, the sky so blue,
I thought I'd give the world to look
Along the pages of a book.

Now, since I've learned to read and write,
My heart is filled with new delight.

And music too

can there be found

A sight so beautiful as sound?

Tell me, kind friends, in one short word

Am I not like that captive bird?

I live in song and peace and joy,
Though blind, a merry-hearted boy!

3*

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30

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL.

SWEET friends, farewell! the minstrel sings no more
Whose notes till now have fallen on your ear;
His part is ended, and his task is o'er.

As, fading fast his feeble rays appear,

To brighter fires he yields the Muses' shrine;
Yet lingers fondly on this parting line!
If any joy within your heart has flowed
Like fountain-water in a secret place;
If any beam of happiness has glowed

On the clear heaven of some expressive face,
While listening to this soon-forgotten strain
He has his recompense and dearest gain.
Sad is the music of his humble shell,

As echo answers to its last farewell!

PART II.

THE DYING SENECA.

He died not as the martyr dies,

Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; He fell not as the warrior falls, Gasping upon the field of fame ;

A gentler passage to the grave

The murderer's softened fury gave.

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles

Had tracked the purple demon's path,

And yet another victim lived

To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; Could not imperial vengeance spare His furrowed brow and silver hair?

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THE DEPARTURE.

The field was sown with noble blood,

The harvest reaped in bitter tears,
When rolling up its crimson flood

Broke the long gathering tide of years;

His diadem was rent away

And beggars trampled on his clay.

At morning by the despot's throne,

At evening dashed the laurelled bust

And spurned the wreaths themselves had strown;

The shout of triumph echoed wide,

The self-stung reptile writhed and died!

THE DEPARTURE.

SHE turned, and sought the rock once more;
She heard the distant parting hail,

And sat her sadly on the shore

To watch the lessening sail;

It was a bitter thing to start
The slumbers of the dreaming heart,
To break its yet unsevered chain,
And know it might not meet again.