A Mother's grief and joy
I could not lift my voice to sing,
Nor touch my harp, to sweep a string;
And this world's joy and music seemed
As things whereof I had but dreamed.
For Death's pale angel stood so near
My only child, I could but Fear
And watch; or, bow my soul in prayer,
That He who governs Death, would spare
My tender infant's life—would save
My heart from bursting o'er its grave.
Ere yet twelve moons had silvered earth,
Since this bright being had its birth—
Before the soft, endearing word
Of 'MOTHER,' from its lips was heard,
The smiles that lit its beaming face
To marks of pain had given place.
Its cheek was wan, its languid eye
Rose feebly, as, to ask me why
I dropped from mine the tear of grief,
And did not give my babe relief.
The sides seemed overspread with gloom
Deep as the shades that fill the tomb,
And earth's bright blossoms, past away,
While my sweet flow'ret fading lay.
And, when I prayed—'Thy will be done!'
Strong nature cried, 'O, be it one,
That shall my sinking babe restore!
And, Father, I will ask no more
Than that this froward will of mine
May here be swallowed up in thine!'
I know not how this double prayer
Of little faith and great despair,
Could e'er have reached the mercy-seat
A gracious answer there to meet!
But this sure word rebuked my fears,
'To reap in joy, ye sow in tears.'
Then He, who gave it, beard my cries,
And caused the star of hope to rise
Upon my soul with cheering ray,
A blessed herald of the day.
And, since my heavenly Father smiled
Arid kindly gave me back my child,
The roses that its cheek resume
Have clothed the earth, to me, with bloom!
Its laughing eye to mine, is bright
Enough to fill the world with light!
There's music on the balmy air;
There's joy and glory every where!
I'll wake my harp—my voice I'll raise
And give to God my hymn of praise.
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