THE BLIND MINSTREL OF THE
MARKET PLACE.
Along the echoing harbour crowds appear, For ’tis the busy season of the year; Soft airs of June are whispering to the leaves, And happy swallows sport along the eaves. Far, hovering on the east’s remotest rim, A white-winged ship is seen, sublimely dim; Half on the watery plain and half in heaven, No fairer vision to the world is given. At nearer view, her topmast gives the breeze St. George’s Cross, renowned o’er all the seas; Slowly she paces up the shimmering tide, Britannia’s peerless child, old ocean’s bride; With majesty of mien she takes her place, While welcome beams on many a wishful face; Sweet thoughts of distant scenes, forever dear, Her presence brings to many a wanderer here Scenes which, however fair his lot be cast, The exile loves and longs for to the last. The jovial sailor, safe from ocean’s roar, Sings on the deck, or gaily leaps on shore; Careless of dangers past or to be met, His wish upon the present chance is set; If Prudence speaks, her voice is hushed to rest, His only business now is to be blest. Such was the aspect of the genial hour When first I felt the sightless minstrel’s power, And gazed upon that melancholy brow Which moved the pitying tear, and haunts me now. Stricken, but aye serene, he gropes his way Where busy hucksters all their wealth display, And prudent housewives roam from stall to stall, Till each has higgled round the range of all. Youthful, yet worn, his pallid cheek betrays That he has borne the pinch of evil days; His inner world, a lonely isle of thought, Afflicted with an unpropitious lot; His outer world, a blank,—contracted, strange,— The breadth his hand can reach, its utmost range. The landscape, stretching to the purple hills, With groves and cottages and gleaming rills, All nice gradations that belong to space, And which the humblest rustic loves to trace, If mentioned or described, perplex his mind, And force the silent comment, I am blind!— In vain for him the splendour of the skies Expanded floats above his lifted eyes. The blush of dawn, the noontide beams, the hues That clothe the west when fall the early dews,— These, and the softer glories of the night, Send no sweet message through his torpid sight.
But never having known the joy that springs From observation of external things, To him their absence is but partial loss, And half unconsciously he bears his cross. Taught, by a lofty faith, to nurse content, And prize the scanty good that God hath lent, He trusts the sacred source of perfect love, And hopes to see the light in worlds above. Thus safely anchored, bravely doth he try To earn the little that his wants supply, Nursing the manly virtue in his heart, That scorns the mendicant’s ignoble part. His violin, the only wealth he owns, Speaks to his soul in such endearing tones, That now, the sole companion of his life, He names, in quiet jest, My little wife.
To-day, while sounds of commerce everywhere, And hasty human footsteps jar the air, Upon the market place the minstrel stands, Tuning his instrument with pallid hands. Close by, the mighty river rolls along, And, solaced by its sympathetic song, He hastens, while his audience gather round, To emulate the sweetness of its sound. With practised ear, in listening attitude, He first interrogates the vocal wood; Its answers he receives with changing look, Anger, approval, pleasure, or rebuke. Till coaxing, fondling, with persuasive art, Pressing the yearner closer to his heart, The perfect soul of harmony he wakes, And o’er his face the light of gladness breaks. So must he regulate his rude desires, Who fain would tread the earth as heaven requires; Each captive vice must cower beneath his skill. Till made the pliant vassal of his will, Then angels, though unseen, will linger near, And whisper secrets of their native sphere.
Now speeds the bow, and from the panting strings Sweet meanings float afar on airy wings. No complicated task doth he assume, Such as may suit the genius of a Prume, But simple airs that charm the simple heart, Partaking more of nature than of art; Soft sounds and plaintive murmurs that express All earnest feelings, rapture, and distress, Love’s fever and the patriotic glow That prompts the eager hand to smite the foe; But chief the nimble notes that youthful feet, So dear to Terpsichora, love to greet, Inspire his elbow;—how it swirls and sways, As if to trace the dance’s witching maze! The young, the aged, homely face and fair, With shining looks and willing ears are there; The market-woman, dowered with double chin, And proud rotundity of abdomen; The scented dandy, with his twirling cane, Embroidered vest, and gorgeous golden chain; The bare-foot urchin, with his mottled face, Elbowing Master Ruffle for a place;— There, girt with scarlet sash, with whip in hand, The modest habitant secures his stand;— A gentle being, blessed with quiet days, Politeness blossoms out in all his ways:— O, ye who walk, and sit, and speak by rule! Forgetting Nature’s free and ample school, In him behold, and copy if you can, The royal pattern of a gentleman.
Vain the attempt to sketch the motley ring, Enough that generous fingers freely fling Such tokens as confess the minstrel’s skill, And testify how sweet is music’s thrill. Then long may he survive to wield the bow, And muse beside the river’s rushing flow, Apollo’s heir—his territorial space, The full circumference of the Market Place.