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So one, morn,
She wrapt him safely in a cradle-ark,
And with a hurried foot-step laid him down
Among the rushes by the river's brink.
—Strangely the wild eye of the wondering babe,
Gaz'd on her from the water,—and his arms
Stretch'd from their reedy prison, sought in vain
To twine about her neck. She turn'd away,
Breathing that prayer, which none but mothers breathe
For their endanger'd babes.
It was the Nile,
On which she laid her son, in his slight ark
Of woven rushes. She remember'd well,
The gaunt and wily crocodile, that loves
To haunt those slimy waters. But she knew
That He who made the crocodile could stay
His ravenous jaws. So, in his mighty arm
She put her trust. Close by the river's brink,
Her little mournful daughter staid to see
What would befal her brother, and her voice
Did sweetly struggle with her grief, to sing
The hymn that sooth'd the child.
