  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 Judea’s heart was wrung By centuries of woe. I ate my crust in tears to-day, As scourged I went upon my way— And yet my darling smiled; Aye, beating at my breast, he laughed— My anguish curdled not the draught— ’Twas sweet with love, my child! The shadow of the centuries lies Deep in thy dark and mournful eye 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! 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 Judea’s fainting soul! |
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