INJURED, hopeless, faint, and weary, Sad, indignant, and forlorn, Through the desert wild and dreary, Hagar leads the child of scorn.
Who can speak a mother's anguish,
Painted in that tearless eye,
Which beholds her darling languish,-
Languish unrelieved, and die.
Lo! the empty pitcher fails her, Perishing with thirst he lies; Death, with deep despair assails her, Piteous as for aid he cries.
From the dreadful image flying,
Wild she rushes from the sight;
In the agonies of dying
Can she see her soul's delight?
Now bereft of every hope,
Cast upon the burning ground, Poor, abandoned soul! look up, Mercy have thy sorrows found.
Lo! the angel of the Lord
Comes thy great distress to cheer; Listen to the gracious word,
See divine relief is near.
"Care of Heaven! though man forsake thee,
Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn?
From thy dream of wo awake thee,
To thy rescued child return.
"Lift thine eyes, behold yon fountain,
Sparkling mid those fruitful trees;
Lo! beneath yon sheltering mountain
Smile for thee green bowers of ease.
"In the hour of sore affliction,
God hath seen and pitied thee; Cheer thee in the sweet conviction, Thou henceforth his care shalt be.
"Be no more by doubts distressed,
Mother of a mighty race!
By contempt no more oppressed,
Thou hast found a resting place."
Thus from peace and comfort driven,
Thou, poor soul, all desolate;
Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven
Found thee, in thy abject state.
O'er thy empty pitcher, mourning,
Mid the desert of the world;
Thus, with shame and anguish burning,
From thy cherished pleasures hurled :
See thy great deliverer nigh,
Calls thee from thy sorrow vain;
Bids thee on his love rely,
Bless the salutary pain.
From thine eyes the mist dispelling,
Lo! the well of life he shows;
In his presence ever dwelling,
Bids thee find thy true repose.
Future prospects rich in blessing,
Open to thy hopes secure;
Sure of endless joys possessing,
Of an heavenly kingdom sure.
WHEN pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth,
And the gay hours on downy wing advance,
Oh! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of truth
Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance
The raptured soul by intermingling glance
Of mutual bliss; sweet amid roseate bowers,
Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance,
Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers,
Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm, unclouded hours.
Yet they, who light of heart in May-day pride,
Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song,
(Though he their softest pleasures may provide,
Even then when pleasures in full concert throng)
They cannot know with what enchantment strong
He steals upon the tender suffering soul,
What gently soothing charms to him belong,
How melting sorrow owns his soft control,
Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll.
When vexed by cares, and harassed by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let love, consoling love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignly shed;
His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To love the tender heart hath ever fled,
As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.
Oh! fondly cherish, then, the lovely plant,
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze;
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize,
When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.
Through the hard season love, with plaintive note,
Like the kind redbreast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,
With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting
Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle love!
Repentance may the storm of passion chase,
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast,
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace,
And, smiling, wipe his tearful eye at last :
Yet when the wind's rude violence is past,
Look what a wreck the scattered fields display!
See on the ground the withering blossoms cast!
And hear sad Philomel, with piteous lay,
Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away.
The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,
May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong.
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry strife;
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,
And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.
Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring
The ruin, not renewal of his flame:
If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain!
Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim,
Asserts for ever her repulsive reign,
Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train.
Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save
The good so cherished from thy grasping hand?
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand
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