"O say! What is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wond'rous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Make it day or night?
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I can not have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy."
--_Old Magazine._
148