She, in her part, is but an agent mute,
Her brain untutored, nor her tact acute,
Her nerve-strung body slow as senseless soil
To watch the working of the seedling’s toil;
In vain before her inmost vision spread
The hidden streams from whence the vital founts are fed.
LII.
The mother’s blindness was blind man’s decree,
And to himself reverts the misery;
Through hapless years his ordinance has run,