Poems (Louisa Blake)/The Idiot Boy
THE IDIOT BOY.[1]
In a remote sequester'd glen,
Far from the busy haunts of men,
In years long since gone by, there stood
An humble dwelling, low and rude,
Beneath whose roof, in peaceful rest,
An aged man lived happy,—blest;
His fondest care, his only joy,
A poor, weak, helpless, idiot boy;
And 'twas that very helplessness,
As all unable to express
The grief or bliss, the joy or wo
Which light or shade young childhood's brow
That claimed a father's tenderest care.—
His was a face most sweetly fair,
And, though no thought it could express,
Of most surpassing loveliness;
Such loveliness as oft is shed
Around the fair and beauteous dead,
When spirit, feeling, soul is fled.
O, it is mournful thus to find
A human form without a mind!
And yet it seem'd as if a ray
Of intellect would sometimes play
Across his sadly pensive face,
And light it one brief moment's space;
But quick the meteor flash was o'er,
And left it tranquil, as before.
Unlit by mind, his soft blue eye
Was often fixed on vacancy;
And sometimes on a lovely even
The tearful orbs were raised to Heaven,
As though he felt how lone and drear
And desolate his path was here,
And sunk beneath the withering blight
Of utter darkness, mental night,
That night whose sad and chilling gloom,
Nips life's sweet roses' fairest bloom;
And yet, his life was not all shade,
For in bright intervals there play'd
A beam of gladness round his heart,
And made one part, one little part
Of life, to this poor idiot boy,
A scene of bright, unmingled joy;
'Twas filial love;—as pure, refined,
As ever raised the noblest mind;
The earliest passion, only one
His single heart had ever known,
And the affections as they glow'd
Concentred in one channel flow'd,
One still, deep stream of filial love,
Which could not wander, could not rove.
And can proud boasting man, elate
In mental riches, deprecate
The pleasures of this simple pair?
Oh, let him to that hut repair,
That lowly, humble, wretched cot,
And envy those two beings' lot!
That son, who, since to life he sprang,
Ne'er gave his father's heart a pang;
That father, offering thanks to Heaven
That to his heart this boy was given,
With one pure source of joy endued
Feelings of warmest gratitude.
Far from the busy haunts of men,
In years long since gone by, there stood
An humble dwelling, low and rude,
Beneath whose roof, in peaceful rest,
An aged man lived happy,—blest;
His fondest care, his only joy,
A poor, weak, helpless, idiot boy;
And 'twas that very helplessness,
As all unable to express
The grief or bliss, the joy or wo
Which light or shade young childhood's brow
That claimed a father's tenderest care.—
His was a face most sweetly fair,
And, though no thought it could express,
Of most surpassing loveliness;
Such loveliness as oft is shed
Around the fair and beauteous dead,
When spirit, feeling, soul is fled.
O, it is mournful thus to find
A human form without a mind!
And yet it seem'd as if a ray
Of intellect would sometimes play
Across his sadly pensive face,
And light it one brief moment's space;
But quick the meteor flash was o'er,
And left it tranquil, as before.
Unlit by mind, his soft blue eye
Was often fixed on vacancy;
And sometimes on a lovely even
The tearful orbs were raised to Heaven,
As though he felt how lone and drear
And desolate his path was here,
And sunk beneath the withering blight
Of utter darkness, mental night,
That night whose sad and chilling gloom,
Nips life's sweet roses' fairest bloom;
And yet, his life was not all shade,
For in bright intervals there play'd
A beam of gladness round his heart,
And made one part, one little part
Of life, to this poor idiot boy,
A scene of bright, unmingled joy;
'Twas filial love;—as pure, refined,
As ever raised the noblest mind;
The earliest passion, only one
His single heart had ever known,
And the affections as they glow'd
Concentred in one channel flow'd,
One still, deep stream of filial love,
Which could not wander, could not rove.
And can proud boasting man, elate
In mental riches, deprecate
The pleasures of this simple pair?
Oh, let him to that hut repair,
That lowly, humble, wretched cot,
And envy those two beings' lot!
That son, who, since to life he sprang,
Ne'er gave his father's heart a pang;
That father, offering thanks to Heaven
That to his heart this boy was given,
With one pure source of joy endued
Feelings of warmest gratitude.
Unmingled bliss is not of earth;
It is of higher, holier birth;
And this the heart-struck parent felt
When by his idiot boy he knelt,
And watch'd his short and laboring breath
And marked his features fix'd as death,
Save when a dart of sudden pain
Convulsed—then left them still again;
And in the intervals his eye
Would seek his father's mournfully,
As if to ask him to assuage
Disease's strongest wildest rage:
Poor boy! not wont to ask in vain
Thy father's care to ease thy pain.
That fond, appealing, mournful look,
The father 'could no longer brook,
His poor unconscious boy he press'd
An instant to his bursting breast,
Stroked back the glossy ringlets bright
From off his brow so deadly white,
And saw with agony intense,
No signs of mute intelligence
As he endeavor'd to explain
That he would soon return again;
Then rush'd with grief, with anguish wild,
To seek assistance for his child.
The winter twilight now had pass'd,
The snow was falling thick and fast,
Yet onward was the old man driven
Unmindful of the blasts of heaven,
For all without was peace and rest
Compared to his distracted breast.
But soon a deathlike torpor stole
With power benumbing o'er his soul,
He felt no pain, but calm and still
Crept o'er his limbs a shuddering chill.
One deep drawn heartfelt sigh he gave,
To think that snow must be his grave;
One groan of bitter agony
As, thinking of his idiot boy,
He roused his energies to make
One effort more—he could not break
The icy bonds that firmly clasp
Each powerless limb in iron grasp,
He sunk to earth alone to die,
No succor, no assistance nigh.
He lay, but lay not long alone,
A soft cheek press'd against his own,
Seem'd as its warmth it would impart
To bring back life to that still heart;
A soft hand stroked that furrow'd brow,
A fond lip kiss'd that cheek of snow,
Fair arms that form so motionless,
Clasp'd in a long and warm caress.—
The father felt the warm embrace,
He felt the kiss upon his face,
He knew the signs which did express
His idiot boy's fond tenderness,
He knew that he had left his home
In that dark, fearful night, to roam
Across the wilds, who ne'er before
Left for an hour the cottage door,
While Heaven his wandering way did guide
To perish by his father's side.—
He came, and long and vainly strove
By fond endearments, playful love,
To raise those lids which ere this hour
Unclosed beneath the magic power
Of his warm kiss, now given in vain—
Those eyes shall ne'er unclose again.
With grief he saw his fond caress
Met no return of tenderness,
And that he could not break that sleep,
So deadly still, so strangely deep;
Till finding all his efforts vain
Repeated o'er and o'er again,
He sunk upon his chilling bed,
A snow-wreath pillow'd his fair head,
One arm flung o'er his father's breast,
His warm cheek to that form he press'd;
Warm for a time,—but soon a chill
Struck to his heart and it was still:
The father felt that warmth had fled,
And knew his idiot boy was dead;
His grateful heart gave thanks to Heaven
That nature's ties were gently riven,
And pray'd that they ere long might meet,
Together at their Saviour's feet:
And canst thou doubt his earnest prayer
To Heaven, found acceptance there?
That when his heart's faint beatings ceased
And his tried spirit was released,
That to his longing soul was given
To meet his idiot boy in Heaven?
Oh, no! we cannot doubt, for sure
His gentle spirit was as pure,
As worthy of its heavenly birth
As e'er it came to dwell on earth;
It never knew the chilling blight
Which sin casts o'er the spirit's light;
And ne'er did crime's dark current roll
Its troubled waters o'er his soul:
Then sure the shackles which confined,
On earth, his high, immortal mind,
Were burst in sunder when the soul
Ascended to the heavenly goal,
When clothed in pure effulgence bright,
It moves, an angel form of light.
It is of higher, holier birth;
And this the heart-struck parent felt
When by his idiot boy he knelt,
And watch'd his short and laboring breath
And marked his features fix'd as death,
Save when a dart of sudden pain
Convulsed—then left them still again;
And in the intervals his eye
Would seek his father's mournfully,
As if to ask him to assuage
Disease's strongest wildest rage:
Poor boy! not wont to ask in vain
Thy father's care to ease thy pain.
That fond, appealing, mournful look,
The father 'could no longer brook,
His poor unconscious boy he press'd
An instant to his bursting breast,
Stroked back the glossy ringlets bright
From off his brow so deadly white,
And saw with agony intense,
No signs of mute intelligence
As he endeavor'd to explain
That he would soon return again;
Then rush'd with grief, with anguish wild,
To seek assistance for his child.
The winter twilight now had pass'd,
The snow was falling thick and fast,
Yet onward was the old man driven
Unmindful of the blasts of heaven,
For all without was peace and rest
Compared to his distracted breast.
But soon a deathlike torpor stole
With power benumbing o'er his soul,
He felt no pain, but calm and still
Crept o'er his limbs a shuddering chill.
One deep drawn heartfelt sigh he gave,
To think that snow must be his grave;
One groan of bitter agony
As, thinking of his idiot boy,
He roused his energies to make
One effort more—he could not break
The icy bonds that firmly clasp
Each powerless limb in iron grasp,
He sunk to earth alone to die,
No succor, no assistance nigh.
He lay, but lay not long alone,
A soft cheek press'd against his own,
Seem'd as its warmth it would impart
To bring back life to that still heart;
A soft hand stroked that furrow'd brow,
A fond lip kiss'd that cheek of snow,
Fair arms that form so motionless,
Clasp'd in a long and warm caress.—
The father felt the warm embrace,
He felt the kiss upon his face,
He knew the signs which did express
His idiot boy's fond tenderness,
He knew that he had left his home
In that dark, fearful night, to roam
Across the wilds, who ne'er before
Left for an hour the cottage door,
While Heaven his wandering way did guide
To perish by his father's side.—
He came, and long and vainly strove
By fond endearments, playful love,
To raise those lids which ere this hour
Unclosed beneath the magic power
Of his warm kiss, now given in vain—
Those eyes shall ne'er unclose again.
With grief he saw his fond caress
Met no return of tenderness,
And that he could not break that sleep,
So deadly still, so strangely deep;
Till finding all his efforts vain
Repeated o'er and o'er again,
He sunk upon his chilling bed,
A snow-wreath pillow'd his fair head,
One arm flung o'er his father's breast,
His warm cheek to that form he press'd;
Warm for a time,—but soon a chill
Struck to his heart and it was still:
The father felt that warmth had fled,
And knew his idiot boy was dead;
His grateful heart gave thanks to Heaven
That nature's ties were gently riven,
And pray'd that they ere long might meet,
Together at their Saviour's feet:
And canst thou doubt his earnest prayer
To Heaven, found acceptance there?
That when his heart's faint beatings ceased
And his tried spirit was released,
That to his longing soul was given
To meet his idiot boy in Heaven?
Oh, no! we cannot doubt, for sure
His gentle spirit was as pure,
As worthy of its heavenly birth
As e'er it came to dwell on earth;
It never knew the chilling blight
Which sin casts o'er the spirit's light;
And ne'er did crime's dark current roll
Its troubled waters o'er his soul:
Then sure the shackles which confined,
On earth, his high, immortal mind,
Were burst in sunder when the soul
Ascended to the heavenly goal,
When clothed in pure effulgence bright,
It moves, an angel form of light.
- ↑ From a tale in Friendship's Offering for 1826.