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Composed
for, and repeated by, two dear little animated girls, at a family
celebration of the Festival of Purim.
By Grace Aguilar.
“Come
forth, sweet sister! leave your book, we have no task to-day,
The flowers, and birds, and sunny sky, invite us forth to play;
Oh! think what joy, what happy hours, this long’d for day we share,
And let us hunt for spring’s sweet flowers, to wreathe our mother’s
hair.
Come! we have days enough to read, sweet sister come with me,
Away with such grave looks and thoughts! to-day is but for glee.”
“A
little while, and I will come,—I only want to know
What passed upon this very day—a long time ago;
Our mother told us a sad tale—that thousands were to die,
E’en little children, sister dear—as young as you or I.
And all because a cruel foe swore vengeance on our race,
That from the noble MORDECAI no homage could he trace.”
“But
we were saved, sweet sister; death was averted then,
Our mother told us ESTHER came, and there was joy again;
She was so lovely, and so good, the king could nought deny,
And so she sent fleet messengers, that Israel should not die.
There! I have told you all the tale,—you need not read it now;
Come dearest! to our birds and flowers—and clear that thoughtful
brow.”
“Sweet
sister! let me think awhile, and then I’ll merry be,
Should we not think a grateful thought e’en in our sunny glee?
It was not only Esther’s words—but Israel’s God was there,
The king of Persia’s heart to turn—His chosen ones to spare.
And we should bless Him, sister dear, that He protects us still—
And such kind friends bestows on us, to guard us from all ill.”
“Yes,
yes, sweet sister, you are right, not only is to-day
For idle mirth, and noisy games, and merry thoughtless play.
We’ll love our mother more and more, and all our dear kind friends;
And grateful be that hours of dread, no more our Father sends;
That we may sport amid the flowers as happy as a bee,
And cruel foes, can never come, to mar our childish glee.”
“See,
see! I’m ready sister dear—I’ve put the book away;
Come while the sun so brightly shines, we’ll weave our garland gay,
What joy!—what joy! this happy day shall see us all together,
E’en those dear friends, whom time and space, so long from us did
sever;
Oh! many, many happy years, still spare us to each other.
Sweet sister come! I’m ready now—the garland, for our mother.”
1845.
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