Brother and sister are a-maying gone;
By my sick father's bed I watch alone:
Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,
To bring a cowslip-bell or May-thorn home:
I sit and read of Joseph, in the land
Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand
Before him,—but they know him not,—aside
He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide.
Scarce to these words an utterance he can give,
"I am your brother Joseph,—doth he live,
"My father! the old man of whom ye speak?"
And tears are falling on my Father's cheek.
Tho' my poor mother rests among the dead,
And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,
We think not, while we turn the holy page,
Of this vain world,—of sorrow, or of age,—
And oh! my Father,—I am bless'd indeed,—
Bless'd for your sake,—that I have learnt to read.