Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/301

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THE DUMB CHILD.
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 Her face is very fair,Her blue eyes beautiful, of finest mould.Her soft white brow, o'er which in waves of gold. Kippies her shining hair;Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,For He who made it keeps the master-key.
 While He the mind withinShould from earth's Babel-clamour be kept freeE'en that His still small voice and step might be Heard at its inner shrine,Through that deep hush of soul with clearer thrill,Then should I grieve? Oh, murmuring heart be still.
 She seems to have a senseOf quiet gladness in her noiseless play;She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, Whose voiceless eloquenceTouches all hearts, though I had. once the fearThat even her father would not care for her.
 Thank God! it is not so;And when his sons are playing merrily,She comes and leans her head upon his knee. Oh! at such times I knowBy the full eye and tone subdued and mild,How his heart yearns over his silent child.
 Not of all gifts bereftE'en now—how could I say she did not speak?What real language lights her eye and cheek. In thanks to Him who leftUnto her soul, yet open avenuesFor joy to enter, and for love to use!
 And God, in love, doth giveTo her defect a beauty of its own;And we a deeper tenderness have shown, Through that for which we grieve;Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear—Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.
 When that new sense is given,What rapture will its first experience be,That never woke to meaner melody Than the rich songs of heaven,To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,While angels teach the ecstasies of sound.
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