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The Blind Minstrel Of Poplar
Our Parish Church stands in the square
Where trees and flowers rise,
Beside the busy thoroughfare,
Thence pointing to the skies.
The steeple, and the ancient spire
Are fair to look upon;
And when the bells send out their fire,
For miles it travels on.
The ponderous gates, the noble porch,
Invite the people in;
The graveyard, clinging to the Church,
Bids them awake from sin.
Inside the Church a glimpse of heaven
Is caught by many an eye;
And to the weary rest is given,
And hearts are lifted high.
Outside the Church, the wrangling strife
Of greed, and want, and care
Consume the pride of many a life,
And hasten on despair.
But on the corner in the street,
And near the Churchyard gate,
A crowd of people oft-times meet
As Saturday grows late.
And in their midst a blind man stands,
With meek and comely grace;
While music quivers in his hands,
And placid is his face.
Anon his sonorous voice breaks forth
In tuneful melody:
He sings of One Who came to earth,
And made the blind to see.
And far away in thought he flies,
And far away his sight,
Into the land beyond the skies,
Into the golden light.
While here below, the surging throng
Have caught a moment's bliss,
Their voices mingle with his song,
Their thoughts ascend with his.
And many a weary housewife here,
From market trudging on,
Sits for awhile in shadows near,
To dream of days a-gone.
And many a man with drink o'ercome
Will for the moment stay,
Compelled to think, and yearn for home,
By this poor Minstrel's lay.
