Yet still life’s better light shines out above!
And in that village church, where first he learned
To bear his cheerless doom, for heaven’s dear love,
He sits, with wistful face, for ever turned
To hear of those who heavenly pity earned;
Blind Bartimæus, and him desolate,
Who for Bethesda’s waters vainly yearned:
And only sighs, condemned so long to wait,
Baffled and helpless still, beyond the Temple gate!
Mrs. Norton.