THE GIPSY MOTHER. 145
Till thy prescient heart forlorn Sickens at its lot of scorn ? One there is, to whom is known All a mother s secret moan, 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.
See ! 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 ?
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