POEMS BY THE BLIND.

I take the liberty of introducing a few poems by blind authors, feeling that they will be appreciated by the public. Poetry seems to possess peculiar charms for blind people, who, deprived of material sight, seem to love to revel in the beautiful visions presented by the imagination. Among blind poets and rhymesters there are, of course, as many different grades of merit as among the more favored writers, but the proportion of doggerel writers is fortunately much smaller among the blind, and they cannot so readily inflict their scribbling in such volume on a patient public. The poems here presented are selected from among a number of the best productions of the best writers.

LUCY A. LITTLE.

I take great pleasure in introducing into these leaves the following simple poem from the pen of Miss Lucy A. Little, a young blind girl, toward whom I have been drawn by deep sympathy and affection. She was educated in the Wisconsin Inst.i.tution for the Blind, where she graduated with high honor.

She possesses great personal attractions and much intrinsic merit, being the household pet in the home of her grand-parents; and, as the blind have missions, it seems to have been especially hers to minister to those who regard her with doting fondness, and to whom she is a bright prismatic ray, making the shortening path of the old people radiant with, its light.

A JUNE MORNING.

Early one morn in leafy June, When brooks and birds were all in tune, A maiden left her quiet home In meadows and in fields to roam.

She wandered on, in cheerful mood, Through verdant fields and leafy wood.

At length she paused to rest awhile Upon a little rustic stile.

She made a pretty picture there, With her bright, curling, golden hair, And dress of white, and eyes of blue, And ribbons of the self-same hue.

And while she sat absorbed in thought, A form approached. She heeded not Until a hand was gently laid Upon the shoulders of the maid.

Then, looking up in sweet surprise, She saw a pair of jet-black eyes, A perfect form of manly grace, A handsome, open, honest face.

Then said the maid, in voice so clear: "How did you know that I was here?"

Said he: "I sought you at your home, They told me you had hither come, And so, I came, this bright June day, To say what I've so longed to say.

When first we met in by-gone days, You charmed me with your winning ways.

Since then the time has quickly flown, Each day to me you've dearer grown, And you can brighten all my life If you will but become my wife."

She raised her eyes unto his own, And in their depths a new light shone, While in a voice so soft and low She said: "I _will_; it shall be so."

And then they homeward took their way, While birds were singing sweet and gay, Now oft they bless that day in June When brooks and birds were all atune.

GOLD WORSHIPPERS.

BY L.V. HALL.

Within a faded volume, dim and old, I find this musty maxim tersely given: "The magic key to human hearts is gold, But love unlocks the crystal gates of heaven."

Our homes are not so happy as of old, Our hearts are not so merry as of yore, We find that nought can purchase love but gold, That virtue begs a pittance at the door.

There was a time when Beauty bore the sway; There was a time when Wit the world controlled; There was a time when Valor won the day; But now the n.o.ble knight that wins, is Gold.

The ancient Ghebers worshipped light and fire; The Brahmins bowed to G.o.ds of wood and stone; But now, 'neath marble dome and gilded spire, The deity adored is gold alone.

It overlays the altar and the cross; It dignifies the monarch and the clown; The wealth of moral worth is counted dross; The million miser wears the golden crown.

'Tis time this mad idolatry should cease; 'Tis time her prophets and her priests were slain; Let earth do homage to the Prince of Peace, And the reign of gold shall be the golden reign.

The Christ came not with pomp and princely show; His followers were lowly and despised; He courted not the high, nor shunned the low; A very G.o.d in human flesh disguised.

He brought a marvelous message from above: A gift of grace and pardon from the King.

He claimed no t.i.the or tribute but of love-- A penitent and contrite heart to bring.

He banished brokers from the house of prayer; He raised the dead and made the dumb to speak; Unsealed the blinded eye, unstopped the ear; He fed the poor and lifted up the weak.

The way to life, He said, is plain and straight, It leads to joy, and peace, and heavenly light The way to death is through a golden gate And broad the way that leads to endless night.

Shall we accept the sacrifice he made And enter in the Shepherd's sheltering fold?

Or, like the Judas who his Lord betrayed, Sell soul and hope of Heaven for miser's gold?

Say, which is best, true piety or gold?

This metal worship or the living G.o.d?

Ye cannot have them both, so we are told, See to it then which pathway shall be trod.

Array your idol in his robes of state!

Set up his image on his golden throne!

Throw open wide the temple's gilded gate, And thus proclaim that gold is G.o.d alone!

Or else array yourselves in plain attire; Set up the love of Christ in every heart Let each affection feel its fervent fire, And in this money-worship bear no part.

Now make your choice between your gold and heaven; Buy all the sinful pleasures wealth can bring; Increase them through the years to mortals given And die, at last--a beggar--not a king.

Yes, make your choice between your gold and heaven; Find peace and pardon in a Saviour's blood; Freely bestow what, free to you, is given, And meet, at last, the welcoming smile of G.o.d.

THE DOUBLE NIGHT.

BY MORRISON HEADY,

Of the Kentucky Inst.i.tution for the Blind.

_To the shades of Milton and Beethoven_.

"Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve-- That column--of true majesty in man-- a.s.sist me--I will thank you in the grave."--

_Night Thoughts_.

DARKNESS.

Go, bring the harp that once with dirges thrilled, But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers, Save when the faltering hand untimely chilled Steals o'er its chords in broken numbers.

It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell, Where echoless Silence tolls the pa.s.sing bell, Where shadowless Darkness weaves the shrouding spell Of parting joys and parting years.

Go, bring it me, sweet friend, and ere we part, A lay I'll frame, so sad 'twill wring thy heart Of all its pity, all its tears

As fitful shadows round me gather fast, And solemn watch my thoughts are holding, Comes Memory, Panoramist of the Past.

The rising morn of life unfolding, Now fade from view all living toil and strife; Time past is now my present; death, my life; All that exists is obsolete; While o'er my soul there steals the pensive glow Of sainted joys that young years only know, And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw Their lengthening shadows at my feet.

I see a morn domed in by pictured skies; The dew is on its budding pleasures, The gladsome, early, sunlight on it lies, And to it from this dark my pent soul flies, As misers nightly to their treasures.

And, as I look, I see a glittering train, In airy throng, across the dreamlit plain, Come dancing, dancing from the tomb; Flitting in phantom silence on my sight; In silence, yet all beautiful and bright, The ghosts of joy, and hope, and bloom.

But pa.s.sed me by; their lines of fading light Tell of decay, of youth's and beauty's blight; Then, like spent meteors shimmering through the night, The vision melts in closing gloom.