Speech was denied him, and not one Save she who gave him birth alone His uncouth gestures e’er could read, Or learn his sorrows, joy or need, And as, amid the quiet sleep Of summer noon, a storm will sweep In sudden wrath, and blackness cast O’er skies serene a moment past; So in the spirit of this child Dark passion, fitful, quick and wild, Such inward storm would sometimes wake, Naught but her gaze its power could break; Her words could bid its fury cease, The _mother’s voice_ could whisper peace. Not often thus, but the long hours Of summer day mid birds and flowers He’d cheerful spend, or watch the spray Of dashing waves in their wild play. And this, indeed, his chief delight, When airs were bland and skies were bright. So fixed his gaze, you wondered why, A child should look so earnestly. It seemed as if he longed to be A wave amid those waters free. His thoughts we know not, but perchance Some spirit dream was in that glance! Such as when reason leaves her throne And fancy reigns supreme alone, Will lead the helpless captive on To deeds we fear to think upon. Some thought as strange, some wish as wild, We deem possessed this idiot child. One day he climbed the pathway, where The rocky bridge seemed hung in air; Awhile he looked with strange delight On sparkling wave and rainbow bright; Then, with a scream so wild and shrill It made the distant hearer thrill, He plunged amid those waves and foam, Like Naiade seeking its lost home. A moment, and it all was o’er— He sunk, to rise with life no more. A schoolboy saw but could not save The idiot from his watery grave.
Few were the mourners, and some there With hard heart said, “the widow’s care Would now be less,” yea, thought that she From a great burthen thus was free. Ill judging ones! ye could not know The depth of that fond mother’s wo. He surely was not loved the less Because of his great helplessness— Nor can we in our weakness tell He was not loved by God as well— The smallest bird and flow’ret share His holy watch and daily care. That broken link in Nature’s chain May after death unite again. The fettered mind! Ah! who can tell What mysteries in that casket dwell, When God, alone who holds the key Shall set the darkened captive free? One gleam of that electric thought, Which beauty out of chaos wrought; One touch of that creative hand Which loosed prime Nature’s iron band, To feeblest mind can give the power On seraph’s wing to mount and soar. We know not but the soul that lay Like folded flower in feeble clay, May open beneath purer skies, And, fanned by airs of Paradise, May bloom in beauty fresh and fair Amid the richer glories there. E. P.
