by Colley Cibber
O say what is that thing called light,
Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing of the sight?
O 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
Whene'er I make or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
It would be always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hopeless woe.
But sure with patience I may bear
A loss 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,
Although a poor blind boy!
Robin's Nest 