FROM EXILE
Paris, September 3, 1879
(A Mother speaks)Ah, dear God, when will it be day?
I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.
Tossing, I watch the silent stars
Mount up from the horizon bars:
Orion with his flaming sword,
Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;
Auriga up the lofty arch
Pursuing still his stately march—
So patient and so calm are they.
Ah, dear God! when will it be day?
I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.
Tossing, I watch the silent stars
Mount up from the horizon bars:
Orion with his flaming sword,
Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;
Auriga up the lofty arch
Pursuing still his stately march—
So patient and so calm are they.
Ah, dear God! when will it be day?
O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear
A cock crow through the silence clear!
The dawn's faint crimson streaks the east,
And, afar off, I catch the least
Low murmur of the city's stir
As she shakes off the dreams of her!
List! there's a sound of hurrying feet
Far down below me in the street.
Thank God! the weary night is past,
The morning comes—'tis day at last.
A cock crow through the silence clear!
The dawn's faint crimson streaks the east,
And, afar off, I catch the least
Low murmur of the city's stir
As she shakes off the dreams of her!
List! there's a sound of hurrying feet
Far down below me in the street.
Thank God! the weary night is past,
The morning comes—'tis day at last.
Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!
The sun is up, it gilds the skies.
She does not stir. The young sleep sound
The sun is up, it gilds the skies.
She does not stir. The young sleep sound
