Classic Poem

Joch. I've almost reach'd the place — with cautions steps
I must approach the spot where he is laid,
Lest from the royal gardens any 'spy me.
— Poor babe! ere this, the pressing calls of hunger
Have broke thy short repose; the chilling waves,
Ere this, have drench'd thy little shiv'ring limbs.
What must my babe have suffer'd! — No one sees me!
But soft, does no one listen? — Ah! how hard,
How very hard for fondness to be prudent!
Now is the moment to embrace and feed him.
Where's Miriam? she has left her little charge,
Perhaps through fear; perhaps she was dejected.
How wild is thought! how terrible conjecture!
A mother's fondness frames a thousand fears,
With thrilling nerve feels every real ill,
And shapes imagin'd miseries into being.
Ah me! where is he? soul-distracting sight!
He is not there — he's lost, he's gone, he's drown'd!
Toss'd by each beating surge, my infant floats.
Cold, cold, and wat'ry is thy grave, my child!
O no — I see the ark — transporting sight!
I have it here — Alas, the ark is empty!
The casket's left, the precious gem is gone
You spar'd him, pitying spirits of the deep!
But vain your mercy; some insatiate beast,
Cruel as Pharaoh, took the life you spar'd —
And I shall never, never see my boy!

Joch. Came and lament with me thy brother's less!
Mir. Come and adore with me the God of Jacob!
Joch. Miriam — the child is dead!
Mir. He lives! he lives!
Joch. Impossible — Oh, do not mock my grief!
Seest thou that empty vessel?
Mir. From that vessel
Th' Egyptian Princess took him.
Joch. Pharnoh's daughter?
Then still he will be slain: a bloodier death
Will terminate his woes.
Mir. His life is safe;
For know, she means to rear him as her own.
To God, the Lord, the glory be ascrib'd!
O magnify'd for ever he THY might,
Who mock'st all human forethought! who o'erral'st
The hearts of sinners to perform thy work,
Defeating their own purpose; who canst plant
Unlook'd-for mercy in a heathen's heart,
And from the depth of evil bring forth good!
Mir. O blest event, beyond our warmest hopes!
Joch. What! shall my son he nurtur'd in a court,
In princely grandeur bred? taught every art
And every wondrous science Egypt knows?
Yet, ah! I tremble, Miriam; should be learn,
With Egypt's polish'd arts her baneful faith!
O worse exchange for death! yes, should he learn
In you proud prince to disown His hand
Who thus has saved him: should he e'er embrace
(As sure he will, if bred in Pharaoh's court)
The gross idolatries which Egypt owns,
Her graven images, her brutish gods,
Then shall I wish he had not been preserv'd
To shame his fathers, and deny his faith.
Mir. Then to dispel thy fears and crown thy joy,
Hear farther wonders. — Know, the gen'rous Princess
To thine own care thy darling child commits.
Joch. Speak, while my joy will give me leave to listen!
Mir. By her commission'd, thou behold'st me'here,
To seek a matron of the Hebrew race
To nurse him: thou, my mother, art that matren.
I said I knew thee well; that thou wouldst rear him
E'en with a mother's fondness; she who bare him
(I told the Princess) would not love him more.
Joch. Fountain of mercy! whose pervading eye
Can look within and read what passes there,
Accept my thoughts for thanks! I have no words.
My soul, o'erfraught with gratitude, rejects
The aid of language — Lord! behold my heart.
Mir. Yes, thou shalt pour into his infant mind
The purest precepts of the purest faith.
Joch. O! I will fill his tender soul with virtue,
And warm his bosom with devotion's flame!
Aid me, celestial Spirit! with thy grace,
And be my labours with thy influence crown'd!
Without it they were vain. Then, then, my Miriam,
When he is furnish'd, 'gainst the evil day,
With God's whole armour, girt with sacred truth,
And as a breastplate wearing righteousness,
Arm'd with the Spirit of God, the shield of faith,
And with the helmet of salvation crown'd!
Inur'd to watching and dispos'd to prayer;
Then may I send him to a dang'rous court,
And safely trust him in a per'lous world,
Too full of tempting snares and fond delusions!
Mir. May bounteous Heaven thy pious cares reward!
Joch. O Amram! O my husband! when thou com'st
Wearied at night, to rest thee from the toils
Impos'd by haughty Pharaoh, what a tale
Have I to tell thee! Yes: thy darling son
Was lost, and is restor'd; was dead, and lives!
Mir. How joyful shall we spend the live-long night
In praises to Jehovah; who thus mocks
All human foresight, and converts the means
Of seeming ruin into great deliverance!
Joch. Had not my child been doom'd to such strange perils
As a fond mother trembles to recall,
He had not been preserv'd.
Mir. And mark still farther;
Had he been sav'd by any other band,
He had been still expos'd to equal ruin.
Joch. Then let us join to bless the hand of Heaven,
That this poor outcast of the house of Israel,
Condemn'd to die by Pharaoh, kept in secret
By my advent'rous fondness; then expos'd
E'en by that very fondness which conceal'd him,
Is now, to fill the wondrous round of mercy,
Preserv'd from perishing by Pharaoh's daughter,
Saved by the very hand which sought to crush him!
Wise and unsearchable are all thy ways,
Thou God of mercies! — Lend me to my child!