The Newtown bee., 1879-07-23
Ny Blind Canary.
Sweet singer to my dreams, My blind canary,

Sweet singer to my dreams,
 My blind canary, 1 dwell upon the liquid note That fills thy little breast and throat,
 And cones iol,.. ming, full and airy, Reaching far and far away, &@ To some dreamy, twilight day, Whose virgin star with sottness beams
 On fairy dell and fairy When night kneels down before the west In silent prayer, That, till the morn unveils her eye, In tranquil sleep the world shall lie,
 And -serf and king like blessings share; lis then thy voice in music falls Along my hearts deserted halls, Whose mold'ring rafters find their guest Too sweet to bear.
 Who made thy song s0all divine,
 My blind canary? Who taught thy little tongue to sing Who gave thy voice heavenly ring?
 How learned thee thus to sweetly vary The long vibrations of thy muse, And OCT high angels to diffuse A lay too fine for hearts like mine,
 So sad and weary?
 What darlz-wing'd late close-sealeG thine
 eyes,
 My souls cnchanter? A iatc, may be, of high decree Ordained this world thou should'st not see Or that our Hte's cheat and banter. The hearts deep wrong, the maiden's tear; The pain, the strife, suspense and fear; Our woes to know thou art too wise,
 Sweet heaven haunter. Dost slng the joys of warmer climes,
 My little stranger? Those chanGeless green Canary isles, Where ever long the summer smiles
 On tamarin and forest ranger? On those green isles, lapt by the sea, Perennial blooms thy parent tree, Far from mans sins, tar from his crimes, And far from danger. How came thee from thy sunny isles,
 In cold to wander? As poets from the heavens are flung Poor mortals of this earth among, For bread to sing, and starve, and pander Thou minstrel ot the stately palms, Tn frosty climes now sing for aims, Where man beguiles with heartless wiles, Deceit and islander. The yucca and the citron tree
 Thou knowest no more. The guavas sweet and mangosteen Will never more by thee be seen,
 Thy treble note no more will poul Ger mango, palm and asphodel, And pomcgranate, and aureate bell No more, my bird, thy visions tree
 To see thy native shore. There is a more oi brighter beams
 Thine eyes beneath, han ever shone to mortal view, Or tancy's painting ever drew.
 Thy downy form is but the sheath; And music, flashing on its throne Ot paradise and diamond zone, Thy world illumes, and incense teens On thy laurel wreath. When low the plumes oi awful death
 In dusk descends Upon the couch where lite is run, And cold oblivion's night begun,
 Ere yet the soul it's easement rends, The lights of heaven pass in review, And waning hopes their pulse renew; Snch scenes are thine, to which thy breath Its sweetness lends. Oh minstrel of the mystic trill
 And rhyme elastic. There is a singer in my breast That rises to thy vocal crest,
 Though long her lute has lain monastic. Thy dulcet notes with thee she'd share; But since thy songs untinged with care, She stoops, and droops, and wanders still Amid her dreams dynastic.
 dwell in space and nothingness. With thee I'd soar. I live in echoes of the past, Which from the grave are to me cast,
 Like phantoms on the midnight shore. When hope would come, weight is here, Which brushes pride and scatters lear; For hope's misgivings bring distress
 None can explore. To thy far heights with thee I'd rise,
 With soul unclaimed; t To that domain beyond the sky, Beyond the clouds that on me lie,
 Beyond what thought has eer attained. Oh! there falls Q sheen of golden light, Chasing away the pensive night; It blends with rays of milder glow And bears me from this world below, Till faiths maintained. ..-
 -Hugh F. .Mc Dermoh
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