When will the star o’er Ephraim’s mount shining, Give to these eyes the friends held most dear, Oh, when shall we in sweet praise combining, Tune our loved harps unwet by a tear. ELIZABETH. Why is my mother’s brow o’ercast with grief Why wells the frequent tear adown her cheek? Has thy Elizabeth done aught to pain thee, Or has my song awaked the fond remembrance Of thy loved country and thy happy home. My father too, of late seems lost in thought Nor heeds my prattle that was wont to please Would I were worthy to partake thy sorrows To share thy confidence, divide thy cares, And prove the filial love which warms my heart. BETHULAH. My child, our woes are not of that light nature Which fond solicitude, by sharing lessens Else would thy mother tell each secret grief And on thy filial bosom rest for comfort. Then seek not to distress thy gentle nature With tales of woe which thou cans’t not redress But let the wretched heathen of this valley Employ thy care; on them bestow thy pity Haply some not born for eternal glory May hear thy voice, and learn that Israel’s God Formed yon bright orbs which they now vainly worship One precious soul rescued by thy instruction, From idol worship, will sooth thy latest hour And gild with brighter joys the bliss of heaven. ELIZABETH. Mother, dearest mother, trust me I pray, Thy secret grief consumes thy precious life And can I rest while ignorant of the cause? The sad reality will pain me less Than the vague terrors which now haunt my mind. Does any new misfortune threat my father, Or is our country scourged with foreign foes? Is any secret great event impending O’er my loved father or my country’s peace? Thy precepts graved upon my inmost soul Have taught me truth and prudence doubly shine When in one breath they blend their useful empire And though presumption is the fault of youth Yet still methinks I shall not shame thy council If thou wilt trust me with the secret cause Which clouds my father’s face and thine with grief. BETHULAH.