The sick girl sat with downcast eye,
Her bosom heaved the deep drawn sigh,
She felt that all complaint was vain,
For health would ne'er return again.
With pain and weariness oppressed,
She sought her pillow, there to rest,
While sleep a welcome visit paid,
Bright scenes were to her view displayed.
In fancy's magic glass, she sees
Her cheek, long faded by disease,
The rose of health blooms there again,
'Tis no deceitful hectic stain.
Lightly and firm her footsteps fell;
In rapture, she exclaimed, "I'm well!
I bear no suff'ring, feel no pain,
My long lost treasure I regain."
Her blooming form now stands erect,
In fair and comely robes bedecked;
Her limbs, so long with pain oppressed.
Can nimbly move or sweetly rest.
Rejoicing friends their praises sing,
To Hezekiah's bounteous king;
Well pleased, she hears their grateful songs,
And her glad voice the strain prolongs.
But sleep his downy pinions spread,
Her slumbers broke, the vision fled;
Her burning temples throbbed with pain,—
She was an invalid again.