The Cripple, XXV–XXX

Dead is his crutch on moping days— ’Tis so they call his sickly fits, When by his side his crutch he lays, And in the chimney-corner sits, Hobbling in spirit near the yew That in the village churchyard grew.

Ah! it befell at harvest-time,— Such are the ways of Providence,— That the poor widow in her prime Was fever-struck, and hurried hence; Then did he wish indeed to lie Between her arms and with her die.

Who shall the cripple’s woes beguile? Who earn the bread his mouth to feed? Who greet him with a mother’s smile? Who tend him in his utter need? Who lead him to the sanded floor? Who put his crutch behind the door?

Who set him in his wadded chair, And after supper say his grace? Who to invite a loving air His fife upon the table place? Who, as he plays, her eyes shall lift In wonder at a cripple’s gift?

Who ask him all the news that chanced— Of farmer’s wife in coat and hat, Of squire who to the city pranced— To draw him out in lively chat? This flood of love, now but a surf Left on a nameless mound of turf.

Some it made sigh, and some made talk, To see the guardian of the poor Call for the boy to take a walk, And lead him to the workhouse door: With lifted hands and boding look They watched him cross the village brook.