Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith,
Grew to a low, despairing cry
Of utter misery: "Let me die!
"Oh! take me from the scornful eyes,
And hide me where the cruel speech
And mocking finger may not reach!
"I dare not breathe my mother's name
A daughter's right I dare not crave
To weep above her unblest grave!
"Let me not live until my heart,
With few to pity, and with none
To love me, hardens into stone.
"O God! have mercy on Thy child,
Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small,
And take me ere I lose it all!"
A shadow on the moonlight fell,
And murmuring wind and wave became
A voice whose burden was her name.
VI. THE BETROTHAL.
Had then God heard her? Had He sent
His angel down? In flesh and blood,
Before her Esek Harden stood!
He laid his hand upon her arm
"Dear Mabel, this no more shall be;
Who scoffs at you must scoff at me.
"You know rough Esek Harden well;
And if he seems no suitor gay,
And if his hair is touched with gray,
"The maiden grown shall never find
His heart less warm than when she smiled,
Upon his knees, a little child!"