It is the time when friendship. Dance round the mother's knee. 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? That cheered the pleasant hours? They gleam athwart the darkness, With their sweet and changeless eyes, But mute are ye, my children! 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 Oh! boys, the twilight hour Such a heavy time hath grown,— Was spoken to me there, 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 No! in terror wildly flying, Her swoln heart full to bursting Of that wrath so blent with anguish, Who seem more helpless still! 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, 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, But to cast the young child from thee, But the Lord of Hosts was nigh! He (He, too oft forgotten, In sorrow as in joy) Had willed they should not perish— And thou, Nain's grieving widow ! (Who the touch of sorrow knew) And his senses dawned and wakened From the dark and frozen spell Whom thou didst love so well; 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! |