THE BLIND GRANDFATHER.
1 Though grandfather has long been blind,
And his few locks are gray,
He loves to hear the summer wind
Round his pale temples play.
2 We'll lead him to some quiet place,
Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace
The borders of the brook.
3 There he shall sit, as in a dream,
Though nought can he behold,
Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem
The voice of friends of old.
4 Think no more of them, aged man,
For here thou hast no friend;
Think, since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.
THE OLD LABOURER.
1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!
The drops are on your brow;
Your labour with the sun began,
And you are labouring now!
2 I murmur not to dig the soil,
For I have heard it read,
That man by industry and toil
Must eat his daily bread.
3 The lark awakes me with his song,
That hails the morning gray,
And when I mourn for human wrong,
I think of God, and pray.