For the Southern Literary Messenger. ON THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL OF THE ASYLUM AT HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT. Yet deem not, though so dark her path, Heaven strew'd no comforts o'er her lot, Or in its 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 recognize 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 undecipher'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 canst 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.