O, that I could recal past months! the days when God preserved me! when by his light I shunned the paths of evil!—O days! forever—ever flown; when Heaven’s best bounties courted my acceptance! Blest in my husband, blest with dutious children, my path with oil and honey overflowed! Thy daughters, Judah, bowed before my steps, and silent hung upon my flowing words; the aged rose whene’er I passed the gate; and blushing youth retired as I advanced. The poor, the stranger, bless’d my liberal hand; for wretchedness to me ne’er plead in vain. But now—as widow—desolate and poor, the rich forget me, and the poor deride. Even those who erst through fear, shrunk blushing from my view, with cruel insults and unfeeling taunts, add to my misery by sharp rebuke; and say “that’s she who once so rich and great; whom princes honored, and whom age revered; who, when distress assailed her native land, wandered to foreign climes, and other Gods; now desolate returned; struck by the Almighty, doubtless for her sins; bereft of all;—her sons and husband perish within a land of strangers. Thus fade the wicked, though their house be strong, when God, in anger brings their crimes to light.” RUTH. O could the boundless height of my affection, suffice to soothe the bitter pangs thou feelst! What is the world? a vain, delusive bubble, and what are friends, who follow prosperous fortunes, but shrink before the stroke of poverty? poor heartless beings; unworthy of a sigh. Rather let those few worthies claim our thoughts, who sympathize with thee in all thy sufferings. NAOMI. Thy virtue soars above the touch of woe. Thy friendship, sweeter than the dews of Hermon, and dear as incense from our holy altar, shall be my solace. Yes;—I’ll dry my tears, for they distress thee:—esteem our lowly roof more honorable than courtly domes—our coarse and scanty fare, more delicate than fruits of Lebanon—our homely garb—more precious than robes of princes,—and when our little stores are gone, the hand, which feeds the ravens, will send more. RUTH. O! praised by Heaven! who inspires thy soul with comfort! The frowns of poverty are light as air, when cheerfulness resides within the bosom. Industry unlocks a mine of wealth, to all who ope their hands to seize her favors. I marked the fields. The reapers now, with busy hands are gathering their full harvests. I’ll go and glean, and for thy sake am confident of good. NAOMI. Nay rather let us go. How will thy delicate hands, unused to labor, sustain the sultry heat of harvest. My older frame is now of little value; the soul which it imprisons, longs for flight:—and perhaps remorse may touch my kindred’s hearts, when they behold me, with those poor hands, picking the scanty ears from fields that should be mine. RUTH.