Blind Matthew Poem by Alexander Anderson

Blind Matthew, coming down the village street
With slow, sure footsteps, pauses for a while,
And in the sunlight falling soft and sweet
His features brighten to a kindly smile.


Upon his ear the sounds of toil and gain,
Clanking from wood-girt shop and smithy, steal,
And soft he whispers, 'O my fellow-men,
I cannot see you, but I hear and feel.'


Then smiling still he slowly steps along,
And every kindly word and friendly tone,
Like the old fragment of an early song,
Wakes thoughts that make the past again his own.


The children see him, and in merry band
Come shouting from their glad and healthy play,
'Here is blind Matthew, let us take his hand,
And see if he can guess our names to-day.'


Then all around him throng, and run, and press,
And lead him to his seat beneath the tree,
Each striving to be first, for his caress,
Or gain the favour'd seat upon his knee.


And Matthew, happy in their artless prate,
Cries, as he slips into their guileless plan,
'Now she who holds my right hand is sweet Kate,
And she who holds my left is little Anne.'


Then all the children leap with joyful cries,
Till one fair prattler nestling on his breast
Whispers, 'Blind Matthew, tell us when your eyes
Shall have their light, and open like the rest?'


Then closer still he draws the little one,
Laying his hand upon her golden head;
Then speaks with low, soft, sweet and solemn tone,
While all the rest range round with quiet tread.


He tells how Christ, in ages long ago,
Came down to earth in human shape and name,
Walking his pilgrimage, begirt with woe,
And laying healing hands on blind and lame.


Then of blind Bartimeus, the beggar, he
Who by the wayside sat, and cried in awe,
'Jesus, thou Son of David, look on me;'
And Jesus look'd and touch'd him, and he saw.


'But not on earth these eyes of mine shall fill
With light,' thus Matthew ends, 'for in this night
I must grope on with Christ to guide me still,
And He will lead me through the grave to light.


'So when you miss old Matthew from the street,
And in the quiet of the churchyard lies
A new-made grave, to draw your timid feet,
Then will you know that Christ has touch'd my eyes.'