ON SEEING THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL, SITTING FOR HER PORTRAIT.
Heaven guide thee artist! Though thy skill
Can make the enthusiast's passion tear,
And catch expression's faintest thrill,
What power shall prompt thy pencil here?
She hath no eye—God quenched its beam,
No ear—though thunder's trump be blown,
No speech—her spirit's voiceless stream
Flows dark, unfathomed and unknown.
Yet hath she joys, though none may know
Their germ, their impulse, or their power.
And oft her kindling features glow
In meditation's lonely hour,
Or when unfolding blossoms breathe
Their fragrance 'neath a vernal sky,
Or feeling weaves its wild-flower wreath
As some remembered friend draws nigh,
Then doth the heart its lore reveal
Though lip and eye are sealed the while,
And then do wildering graces steal
To paint their language on her smile.
For still the undying soul may teach
Without a glance, a tone, a sigh,
