OSay ! what is that Thing call'd Light,
 Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the Blessings of the Sight,
 Tell your poor blind Boy?




You talk of wond'rous Things you see,
 You say the Sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
 Then make it Day or Night?

My Day or Night myself I make,
  When e'er I wake or play,
And could I ever keep awake,
  With me 'twere always Day.




With heavy Sighs, I often hear,
  You mourn my hopeless Woe;
But sure , with Patience I may bear
  A Lost I ne'er can know.




 
Then let not what I cannot have,
  My Cheer of Mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a King,
  Altho' a poor blind Boy.