The Blind Poet. Give me thy hand, and when the songsters wake The woodland world to melody of love— When the faint ripples of gray-silver break, And leaping light enfolds the deep above— Lead me where sedges murmur and the lush Flag-lances quiver o’er the foamy rush. Moss at my feet, and overhead the green— The deepening green of beeches ; while below, The river-reach, through willows dimly seen, Laves leaf and lily with its murmurous flow. O fair, fair earth ! O breadth of summer skies !— The gladdest memory of my darkened eyes ! You bring me flowers, the pale and fragrant bells, That when the meek-eyed violets are fled, Fold in blue mist the bracken-bowered dells, And float sweet music o’er the flower-dead ; While from some leafy arbour, clear and strong, A brown-winged lover lifts serener song. The beetle booming through the breezy air, The labouring bee, the feathered butterfly, Life lowly-lived, but life exceeding fair— With myriad eyes are yet more poor than I, For darkness breaks in death, and purer sight Waits on the dawning of eternal light. C. A. Dawson .