Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/144

He, who heard the bitter sigh
Of that lone one's agony,
When the water-drop was spent,
And no spreading branch or tent
Sheltered from the burning sky,
Where she laid her son to die,
Bade an angel near her stand,
    And a fountain's silver track
Murmuring mid the desert sand
    Call from death her darling back.
Oh! to Him who still doth deign
Pity for their outcast pain,
Whom proud man with haughty eye
Scarce regards, and passes by;
Who amid the tempest-shock
Roots the wild vine on the rock,
And protects the bud to bless
The untrodden wilderness,
Lift thine eye with tear-drops dim,
Cast thy bosom's fear on Him.
He who heeds the ravens' cry
In their hopeless misery,
Deigns to feed them when they pine,
Cares he not for thee and thine?

Gipsy Mother! lone and drear,
Sad am I to leave thee here,
For the strong and sacred tie
Of thy young maternity