The shells, thou wilt see, are unsullied and white; The silver is modest, and precious, and bright,-- A type! thy quick fancy will readily see, Yet thou 'lt not confess what its meaning may be.
And let the gift sometimes recall to thy mind The friend, by whose hand its pure parts were combined; But, oftener, that Friend, in whose hand was the skill The earth and the seas with their treasures to fill!
O tell me the form of the soft summer air, That tosses so gently the curls of my hair! It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek, But gives me no answer, though often I speak: I feel it play o'er me, refreshing and light, And yet cannot touch it, because I 've no sight!
And music--what is it? and where does it dwell? I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell, While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain, Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain. Now, what the bright colors of music may be, Will any one tell me? for I cannot see.
The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh-- What are they?--on what kind of wings do they fly? Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight? The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind. O tell me what light is, because I am blind!
There stood upon the broad high-road, That o'er a moorland lay, A widow's low and lone abode, And close beside the way.
Upon its face the dwelling bore The signs of times within, That seemed to say but little more Than, "_Better days have been!_"
Behind it was the sedgy fen, With alder, brake, and brush; And less to serve the wants of men, Than of the jay and thrush.
And these would sometimes come, and cheer The widow with a song, To let her feel a neighbor near, And wing an hour along.
A pond, supplied by hidden springs, With lilies bordered round, Was found among the richest things, That blessed the widow's ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook, That wound the meadow through, Which from the pond its being took, And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son; For, children she had three; She called him, though a little one, Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so, If, from the tender shoot, We know the way the branch will grow; Or, by the flower, the fruit.