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The Blind Boy.
From murky clouds, fast hurtling round,
Bursts the loud thunder's deafening sound;
Quick follows each electric flash,
Roar after roar, crash after crash!
While torrent-like the rain doth pour,—
"Who comes in such a fearful hour?"
'Tis poor Old Martha's withered form,
Thus braves the fury of the storm.
See! with unequal, hurried tread,
Uncovered too, that aged head:
What can have happen'd? what's amiss?
To bring her through a storm like this!
Run! Harry, to the door and see,
What the poor creature's troubles be!
(Thus said the father to the son.)
The boy with willing haste hath run,
