BETA

A man stands and holds bagpipes and a walking stick. The poem caption indicates that he is a blind piper. He wears dark pants and a jacket as well as a scarf. A woman stands behind him. She holds a hat in her hand and slings a cloth over her arm. The two figures stand beside a stone wall and in front of a body of water. There are sail boats on the water and dark clouds in the sky. Full page.

The Blind Piper*.

By Delta.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved by concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;
Let no such man be trusted.
Shakespeare.
I love to hear the bagpipe sound ;1
The tones wind magically round2
The heart, which they subdue3
To pain or pleasure ; yes, they raise4
Deep memories, and departed days5
Glide sweetly in review.6
’Tis soft—the low note speaks of love.7
Lo ! the blue lake ; the birchen grove8
Almost from view conceals9
A maiden and a youth, for whom10
Elysium, in its pictured womb,11
Futurity reveals.12
* There are some interesting circumstances attached to the
annexed print. It is engraved from a painting by Clennell, an
artist of deserved celebrity, who, from too great anxiety in the
pursuit of his profession, was some years since deprived of rea-
son, which he has never recovered. His wife, from grief and de-
voted attention to him, was afflicted in a similar manner, and
died ; and the state of his helpless children excited such com-
miseration, that a considerable sum was raised by private sub-
scription for their maintenance and education.—Ed.
’Tis wild—hark ! how the storms rejoice13
Among the rocks ; the cataract’s voice14
Is mighty ; and the breeze15
Sweeps like a hurricane along,16
Singing its fierce demoniac song17
Amid the wondering trees.18
’Tis harsh—the battle onset’s come ;19
With bray of trump, and beat of drum,20
In deadly combat meet21
The soldier and his foe—the cry22
Of “ onward—on to victory !” —23
Of quarter—and retreat.24
And now the wild and wailing tones25
Seem sighs, and shrieks, and dirgeful groans ;26
And now their hurrying force27
Re-echoes like the tramp and tread,28
Athwart the dying and the dead,29
Of horseman and of horse.30
And who is he, the wizard, who,31
Whose music conjures up to view,32
In Fancy’s ranging eye,33
The soft, the beautiful, the wild—34
Dark tempests o’er the mountains piled—35
Or the clear evening sky ?36
Behild him—Day to him is dark ;37
And age, in furrows, hath its mark38
Graved on his manly brow ;39
How changed from when, a peasant-boy,40
Mayhap, through Connaught’s vales in joy41
He whistled at the plough !42
Ah, then, as merry as the lark,43
While the red day-star chased the dark,44
He gazed the purpling sky ;45
Till lightning smote him—and blue day46
Pass’d, like the sight of heaven away47
From Jacob’s dreaming eye.48
All destitute and poor, he sate49
Helpless, lamenting his lorn fate,50
Beside his humble shed51
For many a day—then thought, perchance,52
That lays, which were his pastime once,53
Might now supply him bread.54
So with proud, independent mind,55
He idless all and sloth resign’d,56
Yea, left his native plains,57
Led by a filial hand and true,58
Darkling to roam the country through,59
And pipe his Doric strains.60
Nor joyless is his lot ; the breeze61
That whispers through the leafy trees—62
The murmur of the stream—63
The genial sunshine—and the rain—64
Speak to his heart, and not in vain,65
Of boyhood’s raptured dream !66
’Tis thus that Fancy would create67
The wandering minstrel’s wayward fate,68
Nor of his craft complain ;69
He who can wake the smile and sigh,70
Or bring heavens’s light to beauty’s eye,71
Hath lived not quite in vain.72