The Blind Boy, XXV–XXXVII

‘That noise!’ said he, with lifted hand. ‘The sea-gull’s scream and flapping wings, Before the wind it flies to land, And omens of a tempest brings.’ She tells him how the sea-bird pale Whirls wildly on the coming gale.

‘And is the sea alone? Even now I hear faint mutterings,—not the waves’; It seems a murmur sweeping low And hurrying through the distant caves. I hear again that smothered tone, As if the sea were not alone.’

‘Heaven slopes o’er us on every side, And shuts us from the distant land. The waters only here abide, And we who sit upon the sand. A porpoise revels in the spray, And purple vapours veil the bay.

‘Come, hasten,’ cries she, ‘to the woods Where twisted boughs are thickly set, For soon the rain must fall in floods: Here is no shelter from the wet. While like a sea the sky upheaves, We’ll watch beneath the matted leaves.’

‘Stay, sister! Listen to that sound;— It thunders—does the flash appear?’ ‘It lightens now, and, whirling round, The gull dips low, as if in fear.’ The boy now turns his floating eyes, Though not the way the sea-bird flies.

‘The wind is balmy on my cheek, But now I feel the rain-drop plash. Let us,’ he said, ‘the woodland seek, And hear it on the foliage dash. On the ground-ivy we shall tread, And through the grove its perfume spread.’

And so they prattle as they leave The sandy beach, in pensive mood, His ear turned to the billow’s heave, Her vision leaning on the wood, While, as the honeysuckle clings, About his neck her arm she flings.

Better than she the blind boy hears The whispers of the patient shore, While yet the wave its crest uprears To break once more,—and evermore. Better than she the blind boy feels The simple pictures she reveals.

Clapping her hands, she spies above Rich elms, the turrets grey and old,— But love of home was only love When to her darling brother told. Thus ever to his soul replies The infant passion of her eyes.

While they return, the dwelling near, One word must yet the sister say. She lifts her voice: ‘O brother dear, If good my eyes have been to-day, Kiss them for every new delight That kindles in your spirit’s sight!’

Deep in his eyes the love-lights strove; He clasped her in a close embrace:— With lips that shook with grateful love He kissed her eyes—he kissed her face— He wept upon that tender brow; ‘Dearest, the darkness leaves me now!

‘I view all beauty through your eyes; I see within, you see outside. Your love has raised me to the skies,— Once narrow,—lofty now and wide, And not, as once, of sombre hue; For I can dream the dark to blue.

‘The upward-toiling hill; the stream; The valley; the wide ocean’s sweep; All take the colours of a dream,— The glories of the land of sleep. You are my soul, my eyes, my sight; ’Tis dark no more, you are my light.’