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But Ruth stood up, on her brow There lay a heavenly calm;And from her lips came, soft and low, Words like a holy charm.
I will not leave thee, on thy brow Are lines of sorrow, age and care;Thy form is bent, thy step is slow, Thy bosom stricken, lone and sear.
Oh! when thy heart and home were glad, I freely shared thy joyous lot;And now that heart is lone and sad, Cease to entreat—I'll leave thee not.
Oh! if a lofty palace proud Thy future home shall be;Where sycophants around thee crowd, I'll share that home with thee.
And if on earth the humblest spot, Thy future home shall prove;I'll bring into thy lonely lot The wealth of woman's love.
Go where thou wilt, my steps are there, Our path in life is one;Thou hast no lot I will not share, 'Till life itself be done.
