# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/On seeing the deaf, dumb, and blind Girl of the American Asylum, Hartford, at a Festival

ON SEEING THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL OF THE AMERICAN ASYLUM, HARTFORD, AT A FESTIVAL.
She sat beneath the verdant shade
 Where young birds chirp'd in leafy cell, Where wild flowers deck'd the mossy glade,
 And tuneful waters murmuring fell,
And smile, and song, and mirth were there,
 While youth and joy their tissue wove,
And white robed forms, with tresses fair
 Gay glided through the enchanted grove.
But there she sat with drooping head,  By stern misfortune darkly bound,
By holy light unvisited,  And silent mid a world of sound.
Chain'd down to solitary gloom
 No sense of quick delight was there,
Save when the floweret's rich perfume
 Came floating on the scented air.
She rose, and sadly sought her home,
 Where with the voiceless train she dwelt,
In Charity's majestic dome,
 For bounteous hearts her sorrows felt.
But while her mute companions share
 Those joys which ne'er await the blind,
A moral night of deep despair
 Descending shrouds her lonely mind.
For not to her Creation lends
 Or blush of morn,—or beaming moon,
Nor pitying Knowledge makes amends
 For step-dame Nature's stinted boon.
Yet deem not, though so dark her path,  Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot,
Or in her bitter cup of wrath
 The healing drop of balm forgot.
Oh no!—with meek, contented mind,
 The needle's humble task to ply
At the full board her place to find,
 Or close in sleep the placid eye,
With Order's unobtrusive charm
 Her simple wardrobe to dispose,
To press of guiding care the arm,
 And rove where Autumn's bounty flows,
With Touch so exquisitely true,
 That Vision stands astonish'd by,
To recognise with ardor due
 Some friend or benefactor nigh,
Her hand mid childhood's curls to place,  From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
 Are pleasures left for her to feel.
And often o'er her hour of thought,
 Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
As if the living forms she caught
 On wit's fantastic drapery,
As if at length, relenting skies
 In pity to her doom severe,
Had bade a mimic morning rise,  The chaos of the soul to cheer.
But who, with energy divine,  May tread that undiscover'd maze,
Where Nature, in her curtain'd shrine,  The strange and new-born Thought arrays?
Where quick perception shrinks to find
 On eye and ear the envious seal,
And wild ideas throng the mind,
 Which palsied speech may ne'er reveal;
Where instinct, like a robber bold,
 Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain,
And leaping o'er her barrier cold
 Proclaims the proud precaution vain:
Say, who shall with magician's wand
 That elemental mass compose,
Where young affections pure and fond
 Sleep like the germ mid wintry snows?
Who, in that undecypher'd scroll
 The mystic characters may see,
Save Him who reads the secret soul,
 And holds of life and death the key?
Then, on thy midnight journey roam,  Poor wandering child of rayless gloom, And to thy last and narrow home
 Drop gently from this living tomb.
Yes, uninterpreted and drear,
 Toil onward with benighted mind,
Still kneel at prayers thou can'st not hear,
 And grope for truth thou may'st not find.
No scroll of friendship or of love,
 Must breathe its language o'er thy heart, Nor that Blest Book which guides above
 Its message to thy soul impart.
But Thou who didst on Calvary die
 Flows not thy mercy wide and free? Thou, who didst rend of death the tie,
 Is Nature's seal too strong for thee?
And Thou, Oh Spirit pure, whose rest
 Is with the lowly, contrite train,
Illume the temple of her breast,  And cleanse of latent ill the stain.
That she, whose pilgrimage below
 Was night that never hoped a morn,
That undeclining day may know
 Which of eternity is born.
The great transition who can tell!  When from the ear its seal shall part
Where countless lyres seraphic swell,
 And holy transport thrills the heart.
When the chain'd tongue which ne'er might pour
 The broken melodies of time,
Shall to the highest numbers soar,
 Of everlasting praise sublime,
When those blind orbs which ne'er might trace
 The features of their kindred clay,
Shall scan of Deity the face,  And glow with rapture's deathless ray.