Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Dumb Child
The Dumb Child.
She is my only girl,—
I asked for her as some most precious thing;
For all unfinished was love's jewelled ring
Till set with this soft pearl.
The shade that time brought forth I could not see,
So pure, so perfect, seemed the gift to be.
I asked for her as some most precious thing;
For all unfinished was love's jewelled ring
Till set with this soft pearl.
The shade that time brought forth I could not see,
So pure, so perfect, seemed the gift to be.
Oh! many a soft old tune
I used to sing into that deafened ear,
And suffered not the slightest footstep near,
Lest she might wake too soon;
And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay—
Oh, needless care—I might have let them play.
I used to sing into that deafened ear,
And suffered not the slightest footstep near,
Lest she might wake too soon;
And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay—
Oh, needless care—I might have let them play.
'Twas long ere I believed
That this one daughter might not speak to me;
Waited and watched, God knows how patiently,
How willingly deceived;
Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith,
And tended hope until it starved to death!
That this one daughter might not speak to me;
Waited and watched, God knows how patiently,
How willingly deceived;
Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith,
And tended hope until it starved to death!
Oh, if she could but hear
For one short hour, that I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech
That thrills the mother's ear!
Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred,
To the deep music of that lovely word.
For one short hour, that I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech
That thrills the mother's ear!
Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred,
To the deep music of that lovely word.
My heart it sorely tries
To see her kneel with such a reverent air
Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer;
Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,
Then move her own as she were speaking too.
To see her kneel with such a reverent air
Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer;
Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,
Then move her own as she were speaking too.
I've watched her looking up
To the bright wonder of an evening sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,
That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent-up thought flow forth in words.
To the bright wonder of an evening sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,
That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent-up thought flow forth in words.
The song of bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,
All the great music to which nature moves,
Are wasted melody
To her—the world of sound a tuneless void,
While even silence hath its charm destroyed.
The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,
All the great music to which nature moves,
Are wasted melody
To her—the world of sound a tuneless void,
While even silence hath its charm destroyed.
Her face is very fair,
Her blue eyes beautiful, of finest mould.
Her soft white brow, o'er which in waves of gold.
Kippies her shining hair;
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master-key.
Her blue eyes beautiful, of finest mould.
Her soft white brow, o'er which in waves of gold.
Kippies her shining hair;
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master-key.
While He the mind within
Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free
E'en that His still small voice and step might be
Heard at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul with clearer thrill,
Then should I grieve? Oh, murmuring heart be still.
Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free
E'en that His still small voice and step might be
Heard at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul with clearer thrill,
Then should I grieve? Oh, murmuring heart be still.
She seems to have a sense
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play;
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,
Whose voiceless eloquence
Touches all hearts, though I had. once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play;
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,
Whose voiceless eloquence
Touches all hearts, though I had. once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.
Thank God! it is not so;
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee.
Oh! at such times I know
By the full eye and tone subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns over his silent child.
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee.
Oh! at such times I know
By the full eye and tone subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns over his silent child.
Not of all gifts bereft
E'en now—how could I say she did not speak?
What real language lights her eye and cheek.
In thanks to Him who left
Unto her soul, yet open avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use!
E'en now—how could I say she did not speak?
What real language lights her eye and cheek.
In thanks to Him who left
Unto her soul, yet open avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use!
And God, in love, doth give
To her defect a beauty of its own;
And we a deeper tenderness have shown,
Through that for which we grieve;
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear—
Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.
To her defect a beauty of its own;
And we a deeper tenderness have shown,
Through that for which we grieve;
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear—
Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.
When that new sense is given,
What rapture will its first experience be,
That never woke to meaner melody
Than the rich songs of heaven,
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound.
What rapture will its first experience be,
That never woke to meaner melody
Than the rich songs of heaven,
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound.