And restless, turning on his bed The wasted form cries out with pain, As raising up his fevered head, Oh, God! that I were well again.
And oh, the blind! _none_ feel for ye, Shut out from scenes so lovely bright, Most painful thought—they cannot see— Their night is day—their day is night!
The streets are crowded with the gay, The voice and laugh of girls are heard, Mellowed by the silver ray Of happy thought or witty word.
Speak! ye millions, who joy and gaze Upon the silvery charms of night, Can ye a tear of sorrow raise For those deprived of scenes so bright?
But why ask ye? no themes like these Your thoughts make sad—of other things Ye think, while onward wafts the breeze And the night bird sweetly sings.
And yet, there is many a heart To whom the moonbeams give no light, Those strings with wo do almost part, Swept rudely by the cold world’s blight.
No soothing ray melts o’er their souls, No breeze lulls sweetly o’er those chords, That beat and sigh, like sea o’er shoals, For sympathy’s kind, loving words.
A blue spot in a stormy sky, From which a star gleams purely bright, Is like the smile or tearful eye To those whose hearts are dark with night.
Then feel for th’ pris’ner, sick and blind— E’en the forest-rose, the desert-tree, The sprig of grass, kissed by the wind, Receive its kindest sympathy.
Oh, Summer’s night—man’s Eden hours! All Nature thrills with thy delight, Th’ greenwood, rocky streams and flowers, Th’ murm’ring sea, th’ beach, the mountain height.
Then give thy soul’s gratitude to Him Who made the orb “to rule the night,” And with the prayer of Cherubim Pour forth thy heart’s inmost delight.
And learn to feel for another’s wo, While to Heaven thou breath’st thy prayer— Foul _prejudice_ from thy breast forego, And let _sympathy_ reign ever there.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE YEAR. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker]
It was a dreary night In the latter years of time, When a man, with shrunken limbs And a forehead white with rime— With the rime of weary hours Whose paths were not of flowers— And a beard of snowy white, Walked slowly through the night.
Pale Hecate, overhead, Shone coldly on his brow; His eye was sunken and dim, His cheek had lost its glow, But his step, so full of pride,— The manhood of his stride, Gave this antiquated thing The appearance of a king.