MY harp is on the willow-tree,
Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long ago,—
Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judæa's heart was wrung
By centuries of woe.
The shadow of those centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes;
But, hush! and close them now,
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow.
I ate my crust in tears to-day,
As, scourged, I went upon my way,
And yet my darling smiled,—
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed;
My anguish curdled not the draught,
'Twas sweet with love, my child.
Our harp is on the willow-tree:
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;
But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer
Judæa's fainting soul.