WHEN ev'ning listen'd to the dipping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
Reflects that stately structure on his side,
Within whose walls, as their long labours close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We pass'd in social ease the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.
While some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I linger on the river's marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors grey,
And watching the last sunshine steal away.
As thus I mus'd amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wand'rers of the per'lous main,
Two sailors--well I mark'd them (as the beam
Of parting day yet linger'd on the stream,

And the sun sunk behind the shady reach)--
Hasten'd with tott'ring footsteps to the beach!
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veil'd the other's sight
For ever! As I drew more anxious near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word!--he who was blind,
Stood, as to feel the comfortable wind
That gently lifted his grey hair--his face
Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the trace.
The other fix'd his gaze upon the light,
Parting, and when the sun was vanish'd quite,
Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,
Came to his aged eyes and touch'd his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,
Back hand in hand they went, and left the shore.
As they departed through th' unheeding crowd,
A caged bird sung from the casement loud,
And then I heard alone that blind man say,
'The music of the bird is sweet to-day!'
I said, 'O, heavenly Father! none may know
'The cause these have for silence or for woe!'

Here they appear heart-stricken, yet resign'd
Amidst th' unheeding tumult of mankind.
There is a world--a pure unclouded clime,
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time!
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell
Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell;
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night,
They thought upon that world of distant light!
And when the blind man lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he rais'd a warmer prayer,
Then sigh'd, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head,
'No morn will shine to me, till I am dead?'