Deaf American Poetry: An Anthology

Emma

John R. Burnet 11 Emma The Deaf and Dumb! is there another word By which more sad emotions can be stirr’d? Speech—hearing reft! how lightly falls the weight Balanc’d with that, of common strokes of fate, As captives suff’d but to gaze afar On that bright joyous world they must not share, Gaze but to turn with desolating chill,— And feel the dungeon darker,—colder still; Such was the lot the deaf and dumb have borne;— Theirs was the night that never knew a morn,— Theirs was the dungeon dim and chill, whose gate Was barr’d forever by remorseless fate. Yet light to theirs the captive’s transient doom, Theirs was a deeper—more enduring gloom. What are the body’s chains to bonds that bind The ever restless and immortal mind? What is the darkness of the dungeon’s walls To the deep night that the mute’s soul enthralls;— Whose spell blights all affection’s budding flow’rs, And paralyzes the mind’s finest pow’rs? Could all the mutes far scattered through our land, Be congregrated in one silent band;— Six thousand minds in intellectual night,— Even in this land of science’s boasted light! Six thousand souls—unknowing of a God, Even in Christianity’s most bless’d abode! Six thousand hearts—by undeserved doom, Lock’d up to brood in solitary gloom! Smother’d—not quench’d,—the soul’s eternal fires; Link’d with the brutes its joys—not its desires; (Desires but given to be still repress’d, And smother’d, but to canker in the breast.) John R. Burnet 12 Were such a band before the eye array’d, Scarce human though in God’s own image made,— How would the heart shrink from the mighty sum, And bleed to contemplate the deaf and dumb! And shall the feeling in mere pity end? Will you not too a helping hand extend? Philanthropists,—whose kinding bosoms throb, To spread the light of knowledge round the Globe, Before whose far pervading,—heav’nly ray Ye hope to see man’s misery melt away; When reason’s hand shall lop each wild excess, And her light guide the world to happiness; Look on the deaf and dumb in your own land; What ignorance can more your zeal demand? What savages with minds more all debas’d? Their hearts a wild uncultivated waste, Whose soil’s own richness prompts the growth of weeds, And passion in unprun’d luxuriance breeds; To lift the savage to the rank of man And cultivate the moral wild, what plan,— Philanthropists,—that e’er was yet display’d, More merited from you applause and aid? Christians,—to whom the gospel has been given, Glad tidings to each creature under heaven; With this command, “Go through the world, and preach My gospel, and to keep my statutes teach.” Do your hearts burn till on each heathen land The gospel shine?—Does this divine command Knock at your hearts, and urge you to fulfil, With all your feeble pow’rs, your Maker’s will? Look on your native land,—how many rest In more than heathen darkness, on its breast. Aye,—in this land, where frequent temples rise, And faithful ministers point to the skies; John R. Burnet 13 Where many a circle meets for household pray’r, That purest of all worship,—even there Are those to whom,—though they may bend the knee, That worship is a hidden mystery. And shall it still be so; will you not lend Your aid to those, who seek that veil to rend, That shuts out from th’ unhappy deaf and dumb The prospect of a better world to come? Blessed by thy memory, great, good De l’Epée!* And blessed forever that auspicious day, When the mute sisters waken’d in thy breast, The godlike pity that would never rest; But, burning on through life in that pure heart, Urg’d on thy giant mind to rend apart— Gigantic task! the iron bands, that bound, Ever since time began his weary round, Thousands,—nay, millions, heaven born minds to keep Of ignorance the lowest—darkest deep, Where prejudice clinch’d fast the chains of fate, And barr’d their dungeon with a mountain’s weight; Thou com’st! the mountain’s weight is roll’d away, The dungeon is unbarr’d, the chains give...