 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.
“This was the only moan she ever made.”—
Shelley.
Shelley.
Father! from thy throne of glory,
Where we hope to find redress
In this world, when we are sorry—
Hear an orphan in distress!
I have no one now to love me,
For my parents both are dead!
Save the One that is above me—
Will He not sustain my head?
I am here alone in sorrow—
All my hope on Thee depends—
And may be, alas! to-morrow,
In this wide world without friends!
For the ones that now protect me,
Are but outward friends at best;
And if these should now neglect me,
Where on earth shall I find rest?
Oh! then, rather than to suffer
What has been, or is to be,
Let thy poor, sad orphan offer
Up her dying prayer to Thee!
Where we hope to find redress
In this world, when we are sorry—
Hear an orphan in distress!
I have no one now to love me,
For my parents both are dead!
Save the One that is above me—
Will He not sustain my head?
I am here alone in sorrow—
All my hope on Thee depends—
And may be, alas! to-morrow,
In this wide world without friends!
For the ones that now protect me,
Are but outward friends at best;
And if these should now neglect me,
Where on earth shall I find rest?
Oh! then, rather than to suffer
What has been, or is to be,
Let thy poor, sad orphan offer
Up her dying prayer to Thee!
What my mother had resented,
Had she lived, must now be borne;
And her orphan live contented
With the scorn that she would scorn!
If their children choose to knock me,
I cannot return the blow;
And, if told, their parents mock me,
And believe not what they know!
When they hand around the dishes,
Full of sweetmeats, all so free;
They then smile to all good wishes,
Till they come around to me!
Then they look at me so scornful,
As if better ones were nigh;
And it makes me feel so mournful,
That I pray to God to die!
And this burthen on my spirit
Is so painful now to me,
That, Lord! rather than to bear it,
I would freely go to Thee!
Had she lived, must now be borne;
And her orphan live contented
With the scorn that she would scorn!
If their children choose to knock me,
I cannot return the blow;
And, if told, their parents mock me,
And believe not what they know!
When they hand around the dishes,
Full of sweetmeats, all so free;
They then smile to all good wishes,
Till they come around to me!
Then they look at me so scornful,
As if better ones were nigh;
And it makes me feel so mournful,
That I pray to God to die!
And this burthen on my spirit
Is so painful now to me,
That, Lord! rather than to bear it,
I would freely go to Thee!
Then they say to me as often,
That my tears too often flow;
But the reason is, they soften
Not their hearts, that it is so!
For the one whose grief commences
At her birth, the least offence
Is the greatest of offences,
Though unfelt by happier sense.
For the poor are oft offended
By offences none can see
But the friendless, who are friended
In this world alone by Thee.
Thus, the words that would fall lightly
On another's ear, on mine
Are like thunders, if, but slightly,
They appear to mean design.
And 'tis all because my father
Left me nothing but his love,
That they choose to slight me, rather
Than the ones they think more of!
For they go not here by merit,
Nor by virtue, but by gold;
And the outward heart they wear it,
While the inward one is sold!
And, now, rather than to suffer
This unkindness shown to me;
I would freely, Father! offer
Up my dying prayer to Thee!
That my tears too often flow;
But the reason is, they soften
Not their hearts, that it is so!
For the one whose grief commences
At her birth, the least offence
Is the greatest of offences,
Though unfelt by happier sense.
For the poor are oft offended
By offences none can see
But the friendless, who are friended
In this world alone by Thee.
Thus, the words that would fall lightly
On another's ear, on mine
Are like thunders, if, but slightly,
They appear to mean design.
And 'tis all because my father
Left me nothing but his love,
That they choose to slight me, rather
Than the ones they think more of!
For they go not here by merit,
Nor by virtue, but by gold;
And the outward heart they wear it,
While the inward one is sold!
And, now, rather than to suffer
This unkindness shown to me;
I would freely, Father! offer
Up my dying prayer to Thee!
New York, Sept. 9th, 1840.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |