A Blind-Born's Song

OSay ! what is that Thing call'd Light, Which I mut ne'er enjoy? What are the Bleings of the Sight, Tell your poor blind Boy?

You talk of wond'rous Things you ee, You ay the Sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he Then make it Day or Night? My Day or Night myelf I make, When e'er I wake or play, And could I ever keep awake, With me 'twere always Day.

With heavy Sighs, I often hear, You mourn my hopeles Woe; But ure , with Patience I may bear A Lot I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have, My Cheer of Mind detroy; Whilt thus I ing, I am a King, Altho' a poor blind Boy.