Poems (Louisa Blake)/The Idiot Boy
THE IDIOT BOY.[1]
In a remote sequester'd glen,Far from the busy haunts of men,In years long since gone by, there stoodAn humble dwelling, low and rude,Beneath whose roof, in peaceful rest,An aged man lived happy,—blest;His fondest care, his only joy,A poor, weak, helpless, idiot boy;And 'twas that very helplessness,As all unable to expressThe grief or bliss, the joy or woWhich light or shade young childhood's browThat claimed a father's tenderest care.—His was a face most sweetly fair,And, though no thought it could express,Of most surpassing loveliness;Such loveliness as oft is shed Around the fair and beauteous dead,When spirit, feeling, soul is fled.O, it is mournful thus to findA human form without a mind!And yet it seem'd as if a rayOf intellect would sometimes playAcross his sadly pensive face,And light it one brief moment's space;But quick the meteor flash was o'er,And left it tranquil, as before.Unlit by mind, his soft blue eyeWas often fixed on vacancy;And sometimes on a lovely evenThe tearful orbs were raised to Heaven,As though he felt how lone and drearAnd desolate his path was here,And sunk beneath the withering blightOf utter darkness, mental night,That night whose sad and chilling gloom,Nips life's sweet roses' fairest bloom;And yet, his life was not all shade,For in bright intervals there play'dA beam of gladness round his heart,And made one part, one little partOf life, to this poor idiot boy,A scene of bright, unmingled joy; 'Twas filial love;—as pure, refined,As ever raised the noblest mind;The earliest passion, only oneHis single heart had ever known,And the affections as they glow'dConcentred in one channel flow'd,One still, deep stream of filial love,Which could not wander, could not rove.And can proud boasting man, elateIn mental riches, deprecateThe pleasures of this simple pair?Oh, let him to that hut repair,That lowly, humble, wretched cot,And envy those two beings' lot!That son, who, since to life he sprang,Ne'er gave his father's heart a pang;That father, offering thanks to HeavenThat to his heart this boy was given,With one pure source of joy enduedFeelings of warmest gratitude.
Unmingled bliss is not of earth;It is of higher, holier birth;And this the heart-struck parent feltWhen by his idiot boy he knelt, And watch'd his short and laboring breathAnd marked his features fix'd as death,Save when a dart of sudden painConvulsed—then left them still again;And in the intervals his eyeWould seek his father's mournfully,As if to ask him to assuageDisease's strongest wildest rage:Poor boy! not wont to ask in vainThy father's care to ease thy pain.That fond, appealing, mournful look,The father 'could no longer brook,His poor unconscious boy he press'dAn instant to his bursting breast,Stroked back the glossy ringlets brightFrom off his brow so deadly white,And saw with agony intense,No signs of mute intelligenceAs he endeavor'd to explainThat he would soon return again;Then rush'd with grief, with anguish wild,To seek assistance for his child.The winter twilight now had pass'd,The snow was falling thick and fast,Yet onward was the old man drivenUnmindful of the blasts of heaven, For all without was peace and restCompared to his distracted breast.But soon a deathlike torpor stoleWith power benumbing o'er his soul,He felt no pain, but calm and stillCrept o'er his limbs a shuddering chill.One deep drawn heartfelt sigh he gave,To think that snow must be his grave;One groan of bitter agonyAs, thinking of his idiot boy,He roused his energies to makeOne effort more—he could not breakThe icy bonds that firmly claspEach powerless limb in iron grasp,He sunk to earth alone to die,No succor, no assistance nigh.He lay, but lay not long alone,A soft cheek press'd against his own,Seem'd as its warmth it would impartTo bring back life to that still heart;A soft hand stroked that furrow'd brow,A fond lip kiss'd that cheek of snow,Fair arms that form so motionless,Clasp'd in a long and warm caress.—The father felt the warm embrace,He felt the kiss upon his face, He knew the signs which did expressHis idiot boy's fond tenderness,He knew that he had left his homeIn that dark, fearful night, to roamAcross the wilds, who ne'er beforeLeft for an hour the cottage door,While Heaven his wandering way did guideTo perish by his father's side.—He came, and long and vainly stroveBy fond endearments, playful love,To raise those lids which ere this hourUnclosed beneath the magic powerOf his warm kiss, now given in vain—Those eyes shall ne'er unclose again.With grief he saw his fond caressMet no return of tenderness,And that he could not break that sleep,So deadly still, so strangely deep;Till finding all his efforts vainRepeated o'er and o'er again,He sunk upon his chilling bed,A snow-wreath pillow'd his fair head,One arm flung o'er his father's breast,His warm cheek to that form he press'd;Warm for a time,—but soon a chillStruck to his heart and it was still: The father felt that warmth had fled,And knew his idiot boy was dead;His grateful heart gave thanks to HeavenThat nature's ties were gently riven,And pray'd that they ere long might meet,Together at their Saviour's feet:And canst thou doubt his earnest prayerTo Heaven, found acceptance there?That when his heart's faint beatings ceasedAnd his tried spirit was released,That to his longing soul was givenTo meet his idiot boy in Heaven?Oh, no! we cannot doubt, for sureHis gentle spirit was as pure,As worthy of its heavenly birthAs e'er it came to dwell on earth;It never knew the chilling blightWhich sin casts o'er the spirit's light;And ne'er did crime's dark current rollIts troubled waters o'er his soul:Then sure the shackles which confined,On earth, his high, immortal mind,Were burst in sunder when the soulAscended to the heavenly goal,When clothed in pure effulgence bright,It moves, an angel form of light.
- ↑ From a tale in Friendship's Offering for 1826.