They are shut from the sight of sun and flower,
Of streamlet blue and of jasmine bower,
And the spirit's workings they may not trace,
In a Father's eye and a Mother's face.

In vain is Nature with beauty fraught,
Their only world is the cell of thought,
The upland green and the golden sky,
Are things of nought to the sightless eye.

Then say, can we take from their pining heart,
The burden — of life itself a part?
Can we bid a star on their pathway shine,
With an influence blest and a ray divine?

Oh, yes, the Church hath a soothing balm,
In Collect sweet, and in glowing Psalm,
May she spread her store on the magic page,
And give to the Blind their heritage:

In her Master's soft and enticing tones,
May she speak to the heart of those stricken ones,
And bid a fount in the desert spring,
A Rose on the wild its odor fling.

Oh, then, when thoughts of their cheerless fate,
Would render them more than desolate,
The prompter of joy — the relief of care,
Will prove that volume of Common P RAYER .