POETRY AT SIGHT.
A remarkably successful operation has just been performed by Mr. Curtis, on the eyes of an elderly lady, who had been blind and deaf from her birth. The following letter to her niece has been sent to us by her friends, to show the rapidity of her literary acquirements, immediately on her attainment of the power of vision; and such of our readers as can fancy themselves deaf will certainly see it to consist of capital rhymes.
Dear Dolly, I'll thank you to send the cocoa,
And Susan, who brings it, shall take back your boa.—
Pray, tell Doctor Bleed'em I've got a sad cough;
I caught it while watching young Hodge at the plough;
I thought the day fine and was simple enough
My umbrella to leave, so got wet through and through,
For it came down in torrents; your poor aunt was caught
In the rain, and I afterwards sat in a draught.
This made me much worse, but experience I bought,
And I'll never more trust to the sunshine and drought!
Well, I made myself dry, and I sat down to tea:
Of the good that it did me you'd form no idea.
But I quite hate the country, the weather's so rough,
So you'll see me, dear, soon in your little borough.
I hope, after all, that my cold will be trivial—
But still you may send me that stuff in the vial—
In the kitchen you'll find it, just over the trough.
Oh, my cough! oh, my cough! it all comes of the plough.