It is the time when friendship.
Holds converse fair and free.
It is the time when children

Dance round the mother's knee.
But my soul is faint and heavy,
With a yearning sad and deep;
By the fireside lone and dreary
I sit me down and weep!

Where are ye, merry voices,

Whose clear and bird-like tone

Some other ear now blesses,

Less anxious than my own? Where are ye, steps of lightness,

Which fell like blossom-showers?
Where are ye, sounds of laughter,

That cheered the pleasant hours?
Through the dim light slow declining,
Where my wistful glances fall,
I can see your pictures hanging
Against the silent wall;-

They gleam athwart the darkness,

With their sweet and changeless eyes,

But mute are ye, my children!
No voice to mine replies.

Where are ye? Are ye playing

By the stranger's blazing hearth;

Forgetting, in your gladness,

Your old home's former mirth? Are ye dancing? Are ye singing? Are ye full of childish glee?

Or do your light hearts sadden
With the memory of me?
Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,
Do your young arms fondly twine;
Does she press you to her bosom
Who hath taken you from mine?

Oh! boys, the twilight hour

Such a heavy time hath grown,—
It recalls with such deep anguish
All I used to call my own,-
That the harshest word that ever

Was spoken to me there,
Would be trivial-would be welcome-
In this depth of my despair!

Yet no! Despair shall sink not, While life and love remain,Though the weary struggle haunt me, And my prayer be made in vain : Though at times my spirit fail me, And the bitter tear-drops fall, Though my lot be hard and lonely, Yet I hope I hope through all!

When the mournful Jewish mother
Laid her infant down to rest,
In doubt, and fear, and sorrow,
On the water's changeful breast;
She knew not what the future
Should bring the sorely tried:
That the high-priest of her nation
Was the babe she sought to hide.

No! in terror wildly flying,
She hurried on her path:

Her swoln heart full to bursting
Of woman's helpless wrath;

Of that wrath so blent with anguish,
When we seek to shield from ill
Those feeble little creatures

Who seem more helpless still!
Ah! no doubt in such an hour

Her thoughts were harsh and wild;

The fiercer burned her spirit

The more she loved her child;

No doubt, a frenzied anger

Was mingled with her fear, When that prayer arose for justice Which God hath sworn to hear. He heard it! From His heaven, In its blue and boundless scope,

He saw that task of anguish,

And that fragile ark of hope; When she turned from that lost infant Her weeping eyes of love,

And the cold reeds bent beneath itHis angels watched above!

She was spared the bitter sorrow

Of her young child's carly death, Or the doubt where he was carried To draw his distant breath;

She was called his life to nourish

From the well-springs of her heart,

God's mercy reuniting

Those whom man had forced apart.

Nor was thy woe forgotten,
Whose worn and weary feet
Were driven from thy homestead

Through the red sand's parching heat; Poor Hagar! scorned and banished,

That another's son might be

Sole claimant on that father

Who felt no more for thee.

Ah! when thy dark

eye wandered,

Forlorn Egyptian slave!

Across that lurid desert,

And saw no fountain wave,—

When thy southern heart, despairing,
In the passion of its grief,
Foresaw no ray of comfort,
No shadow of relief,

But to cast the young child from thee,
That thou might'st not see him die,
How sank thy broken spirit—

But the Lord of Hosts was nigh! He (He, too oft forgotten,

In sorrow as in joy)

Had willed they should not perish—
The outcast and her boy:
The cool breeze swept across them
From the angel's waving wing,-
The fresh tide gushed in brightness
From the fountain's living spring,-
And they stood-those two-forsaken
By all earthly love or aid,
Upheld by God's firm promise,
Serene and undismayed!

And thou, Nain's grieving widow !
Whose task of life seemed done,
When the pale corse lay before thee
Of thy dear and only son;
Though death, that fearful shadow,
Had veiled his fair young eyes,
There was mercy for thy weeping,
There was pity for thy sighs!
The gentle voice of Jesus

(Who the touch of sorrow knew)
The grave's cold claim arrested
Ere it hid him from thy view;
And those loving orbs reopened
And knew thy mournful face,-
And the stiff limbs warmed and bent them
With all life's moving grace,-

And his senses dawned and wakened

From the dark and frozen spell
Which death had cast around him

Whom thou didst love so well;
Till, like one returned from exile
To his former home of rest,
Who speaks not while his mother
Falls sobbing on his breast;
But with strange bewildered glances
Looks round on objects near,

To recognize and welcome

All that memory held dear,Thy young son stood before thee All living and restored,

And they who saw the wonder

Knelt down to praise the Lord!