The Blind Harper
THEY passed him by with hurried steps,—
A gay and busy throng;
They passed him by, nor paused to hear
The son of Erin's song.
The passing breeze his white locks swayed,
His eyes with age were dim;
The mid-day sun in splendor shone,
But not, alas! for him.
Far from his own green ocean-isle,
Of home and friends bereft,
The old man leaned upon his harp,—
All that to him was left.
As o'er the strings his fingers strayed,
Sad tears were falling fast;
For, oh! their every tone but seemed
An echo of the past.
“Ah me!” he sighed, “what mean these tears?
I as a child am weak!”
Then buried in his shrivelled hand
His pale and care-worn cheek.
I saw they coldly passed him by,
That gay and busy throng;
But there was one who turned to hear
That son of Erin's song.
Her heart with gentle pity moved,
She wiped a tear away,
As plaintive on her ear there fell
A simple melody.
“Dear isle of the ocean, how oft have I sported
Amid thy green hills and thy valleys so fair!
To the banks of the Shannon how oft have resorted,
And plucked the sweet daisy and green shamrock there!
“Oh! never again shall my wild harp awaken
Its soft-breathing numbers on Erin's bright shore;
The cot of my father, alas! is forsaken;
The home of my youth I'll revisit no more.
“Farewell, O my country! dear isle of the ocean;
I'm weary of life and I pine to be free:
When to Heaven I offer my latest devotion,
I will not forget to make mention of thee.”
He ceased, and quickly to his side
That gentle maiden came;
Long had she gazed, and much she wished
To ask the stranger's name.
“Sire!” she said: the old man turned
His sightless eyes around;
For oh! to him a voice so kind
Seemed an unearthly sound.
Sire! that thrilling lay had waked
My deepest sympathy;—
And hast thou not one kindred heart
To feel or care for thee?”
“No, lady; no! I am alone,
Far from my native shore;
And those who loved me dearly once
I live but to deplore.
“The morn I left that sunny isle
I never can forget;
My broken-hearted mother's kiss,
Lady, I feel it yet.
And then, how wildly round my neck
My only sister clung!
And soon above her silent grave
The drooping willow hung!”
“O minstrel! I can hear no more,”
The weeping maiden said;
And mournfully the old man laid
His hand upon her head.
“Go, lady, go; and evermore
O may'st thou happy be!
An old man's blessing take, 'tis all
He can bestow on thee.”
The spring returned, the sylvan choir
Awoke the silent glade;
And gently through the forest trees
The balmy zephyrs played;
But the poor minstrel they had laid
Within the grave's dark cell,
Far from the land that gave him birth
And those he loved so well.
A gay and busy throng;
They passed him by, nor paused to hear
The son of Erin's song.
The passing breeze his white locks swayed,
His eyes with age were dim;
The mid-day sun in splendor shone,
But not, alas! for him.
Far from his own green ocean-isle,
Of home and friends bereft,
The old man leaned upon his harp,—
All that to him was left.
As o'er the strings his fingers strayed,
Sad tears were falling fast;
For, oh! their every tone but seemed
An echo of the past.
“Ah me!” he sighed, “what mean these tears?
I as a child am weak!”
Then buried in his shrivelled hand
His pale and care-worn cheek.
I saw they coldly passed him by,
That gay and busy throng;
But there was one who turned to hear
That son of Erin's song.
Her heart with gentle pity moved,
She wiped a tear away,
As plaintive on her ear there fell
A simple melody.
“Dear isle of the ocean, how oft have I sported
Amid thy green hills and thy valleys so fair!
To the banks of the Shannon how oft have resorted,
And plucked the sweet daisy and green shamrock there!
“Oh! never again shall my wild harp awaken
Its soft-breathing numbers on Erin's bright shore;
The cot of my father, alas! is forsaken;
The home of my youth I'll revisit no more.
“Farewell, O my country! dear isle of the ocean;
I'm weary of life and I pine to be free:
When to Heaven I offer my latest devotion,
I will not forget to make mention of thee.”
He ceased, and quickly to his side
That gentle maiden came;
Long had she gazed, and much she wished
To ask the stranger's name.
“Sire!” she said: the old man turned
His sightless eyes around;
For oh! to him a voice so kind
Seemed an unearthly sound.
Sire! that thrilling lay had waked
My deepest sympathy;—
And hast thou not one kindred heart
To feel or care for thee?”
“No, lady; no! I am alone,
Far from my native shore;
And those who loved me dearly once
I live but to deplore.
“The morn I left that sunny isle
I never can forget;
My broken-hearted mother's kiss,
Lady, I feel it yet.
And then, how wildly round my neck
My only sister clung!
And soon above her silent grave
The drooping willow hung!”
“O minstrel! I can hear no more,”
The weeping maiden said;
And mournfully the old man laid
His hand upon her head.
“Go, lady, go; and evermore
O may'st thou happy be!
An old man's blessing take, 'tis all
He can bestow on thee.”
The spring returned, the sylvan choir
Awoke the silent glade;
And gently through the forest trees
The balmy zephyrs played;
But the poor minstrel they had laid
Within the grave's dark cell,
Far from the land that gave him birth
And those he loved so well.
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