THE BLIND PSALMIST

HE sang the airs of olden times
In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes,
Devotional, but quaint;

His fingers touched the viol's strings,
And at their gentle vibratings
The glory of an angel's wings

Hung o'er that aged saint!

His thin, white locks, like silver threads
On which the sun its radiance sheds,
Or like the moonlit snow,
Seemed with a lustre half divine
Around his saintly brow to shine,
Till every scar, or time-worn line,
Was gilded with its glow.

His sightless balls to heaven upraised,
As with the spirit's eyes he gazed
On things invisible -
Reflecting some celestial light-
Were like a tranquil lake at night,