~C~fVC oto P WILLIS. .N. WILLIS. NEW YORK: CLARK, AUSTIN & SMITH, " P'APK ROW AND 3 ANN-STREET. 1853. i 1 1 i I- - Iof N. : 1 :".,.1; I Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, BY CLARK & AUSTIN. In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District oft New York. i i i 1. i I i i I I A A -X J M 4-A AFTER repeated publication in many different shapes, the following poems are now presented in a more convenient and cheaper form than ever before; and, in the call for this popular edition, the author cannot but find a gratifying approbation of the character and spirit of his writings. Most of them were first published with no expectation of the ordeal of such constant reproduction to public notice, and the author is well aware that their popularity arises in a great measure from the religious and moral tone of most of them, and from their having thus appealed to a prevalent taste which is in nany ways the stre ilgth and beauty of his country. It is a happy and safe land where such qualities make a book more saleable. The poems within are commended, once more, gratefully and feelingly, to the American public. N. P. WILLIS. October, 1846. I %)reface. Contents. Page. Ihe Healing of the Daughter of Jairus.. 7 The Leper........... 13 David's Grief for his Child... 20 The Sacrifice of Abraham... 26 The Shunammite.... 31 Jephthliah's Daughter........ 36 Absalom............. 41 Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem.. 46 Baptism of Christ......... 50 Scene in Gethsemane........ 53 The Widow of Nain........ 56 Hagar in the Wilderness... 60 Rizpah with her Sons........ 66 Lazarus and Mary.... 71 Thoughts while making the Grave of a New born Child....... 79 On the Departure of Rev. Mr. White.. 82 Birth-day Verses........ 85 To my Mother from the Appenines.. 89 Lines on leaving Europe... 91 A true Incident.... 95 I I I 6 CONTENTS. Page. The Mother to her Child.. 98 A Thought over a Cradle... 100 Thirty-five........... 102 Contemplation.......104 On the Death of a Missionary... 107 On the Picture of a "Child tired of Play".110 A Child's first Impression of a Star.. 112 On Witnessing a Baptism... 114 Reverie at Glenmary........ 116 To a City Pigeon.......... 118 The Belfry Pigeon.... 120 Saturday Afternoon.........122 The Sabbath........... 124 Dedication Hymn.....126 i 6 CONTENTS. POEMS. Ace %ealftg of te augbtet of laf-uo, FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless tranceHer thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turn'd upon her pillow. He was thereThe same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, I J TIIE HEALING OF THE She gently drew his hand upon her lips, And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried up his face; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure-and he couldl not hear, In the dead, utter silence, that a br~eathli Came through her nostrils-and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse-and, at her mouth, He held the lightest curl that on her neck Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness. * * * * * * * * * * * It was nightAnd, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, Danced the breeze-ridden ripple to the shore, Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the m0oon. The breaking waves play'd low upoiI the beach TheTr constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, Seem'd like some just-born harmony Oi the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, He stood and taught the people. At his feet Lay his sm'rll scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, I I 8 DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 9 And staff-for they had waited by the sea Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd For his wont teachings as he came to land. His hair M as parted meekly on his brow, And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deepAnd in his looks the same mild majestyAnd in his mien the sadness mix'd with powerFill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly, As on his words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood JAIRUS THE RULER. With his flowing robe Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came, Ann fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The twelve disciples to their Master's side; And silently the people shrunk away, And left the haughty Ruler in the midst Alone. A moment longer on the face Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, And, as the twelve look'd on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Press'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low, " Master! my daughter!"- * * * * * * 10 THE HEALING OF THE * * * * * * The same silverylight, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair; but ere he touch'd The latchet, from within a whisper came, " Trouble the Master not-for she is dead!" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance;-but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, " She is not dead-but sleepeth." They pass'd in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumber'd in their foldsNot even a tassel stirring in the air I DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of his breath As he grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face; And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved The silken curtains silently apart, And look'd upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she layThe linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like lite; And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In cuirls of glossy blackness, and about Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised i I i 11 12 THE HEALING, ETC. Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, "2Maiden! Arise!"-and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied color ran; And the still outline of her gracefll form Stirr'd in the linen vesture; and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance-AROSE! I i -~~~T~ EE.1 ZDe 3lter. "ROOM for thie leper! Room!" And, as he came, The cry pass'd on-" Room for the leper! Room!" Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were comling in, Duly and cheerfillly to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammner's clink, and the far hum Of moving whieels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swellsUnheard but by the watcher's weary ear, Aching with night's durill silence, or the sick Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase The deathlike images of the dark away. "Room for the leper!" And aside they stood Matron, and child, and pitiless rnmanhood-all Who met him on his way-and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper with the ashes on his brow, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfiully and slow, I I 13 THE LEPER. 14 THE LEPER. And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!" 'Twas now the first Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young, And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Follow'd with benisons-and this was he! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins; Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien, With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed-a languid moan Taking the place of the clear silver key; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. 14 THE LEPER. THE LEPER 15 He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, cover'd him. And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, -And Helon was a leper! Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb; And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 15 THE LEPER. 16 T'5E LEPER. Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom: Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God For He has smote thee with his chastening rod; And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who mi the wilderness pass by. Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well or river's grassy brink; And pass thou not between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the tIees And he not down to sleep beneath the tices 16 THE LEPER. THE LEPER. 171 Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. Depart! O leper! and forget not God! And he went forth-alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name VWas woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea-he went his way, Sick, and heart-broken, and alone-to die! For God had cursed the leper! It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, Praying that he might be so blest-to die! Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, 2 I 17 THE LEPER. I 18 THE LEPEE.~~~~~~~ Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name"Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument-most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before Him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the stranger. HIe was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear,-yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace; His countenance the impress of a God, Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child; I i .18 THE LEPER. THE LEPER. 19 His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him. I I I I II I I 19 THE LEPER. DAVID'S GRIEF i3abi-as e fet for P tt>. 'TwAs daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently 'lhe eyelids of the king. And David woke, And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now, Of the vast palace were astir, and feet Glided aloig the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur, and the fount Whose music had been all the night unheard, Play'd as if light had made it audible; And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy! and now The king's wont was to lie upon his couch Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court, And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven, Play with his loved son by thle fountain's lip; For, with idolatry confess'd alone To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp, 4Ie loved the child of Bathsheba. And when The golden selvedge of his robe was heard I I 20 FOR HIS CHILD. 21 Sweeping the marble pavement, from within Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and wordsArticulate, perhaps, to his heart onlyPleading to come to him. They brought the boyAn infant cherub, leaping as if used To hover with that motion upon wings, And marvellously beautiful! His brow Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, And kingly was his infantine regard; But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould Of Bathsheba's-the hue and type of love, Rosy and passionate-and oh, the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, And drew the heart of the beholder in!And this was like his mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes, And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the lifting of his lids might jar His heart's cup from its fulness. Unobserved, A servant of the outer court had knelt Waiting before him; and a cloud the while Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven; 21 FOR HIS CHILD. And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes And frown'd upon the servant-for that hour WVas hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, And none might seek him. And the king arose, And with a troubled countenance look'd up To the fast-gathering darkness; and, behold, The servant bow'd himself to earth, and said, "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord!" And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp Which wrung a murmur from the frighited child, Hlie drew him to his breast, and cover'd him WVith the long foldings of his robe, and said, "I will come forth. Go now!" And lingeringly, With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, And mingled words of tenderness and prayer Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, He gave to them the child, and bow'd his head Upon his breast with agony. And so, To hear tihe errand of the man of God, He fearfully went forth. It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn; and they who drew The curtains to let in the welcome light, Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, I I 22 DAVID'S GRIEF I- ___ FOR HIS CHILD. 23 And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir! The servants who kept watch without the door Sat motionless; the purple casement-shades From the low windows had been roll'd away, To give the child air: and the flickering light That, all the night, within the spacious court, Had drawm the watcher's eyes to one spot only, Paled with the sunrise and fled in. And hush'd With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'dSo fearfiuily, with heart and pulse kept down, She watch'd his breathless slumber. The low moan That froiii his lips all night broke fitfully, Had silenced with the daybreak; and a smileOr something that would fain have been a smilePlay'd in his parted mouth; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, His senses seem'd all peacefully asleep, And Batlhsheba in silence bless'd the mornThat brought back hope to her! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child, Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir I I 23 i FOR HIS CHILD. 24 DAVID'S GRIEF But morning there-so welcomeless and stillHe groan'd and turn'd upon Iis face. The nights Had wasted; and the mornings come; aml days Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, Since the child sicken'd; and, without the door, Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lainListening only to the moans that brought Their inarticulate tidings, and tile voice Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, In loving utterance all broke with tears, Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And fill'd his prayer with agony. Oh God! To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly The comforting of friends falls on the earThe anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee! But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up, and they who minister'd within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while BathsheDa Held the unmoving child upon her knees, The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whisper'd together. i I I I l 24 DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. And the king arose And gazed on them a moment, and with voice Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, "Is the child dead?" They answer'd, "He is dead!" But when they look'd to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weepFor, while the child was sick, his agony Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heartstrings with the tidings must give wayBehold! his face grew calirn, and, with his robe Gather'd together like his kingly wont, He silently went in. And David came, Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house Of God went up to pray.' And he return'd, And they set bread before him. and he ateAnd when they marvell'd, he said, " Wherefore mourn? The child is dead, and I shall go to himBut he will not return to me." 25 26 THE SACRIFICE EI)c Satfffcc of gbrabain. MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. 11ow hallow'd is the hour of morning! meetAy, beautifully meet-for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncover'd.'Tis his,wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemneth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his statff as at the hour I I I j~~~O ABAA - 2 Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sunHe looketh at its pencill'd messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going uip, E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and childThe bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshlynumber'd. He stoodup, Tall in his vigorous strength; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. Ilis thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a renit rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy —he of the laughing eye - - J I 27 OF ABRAHAM. 28 THE SACRIFICE And ruby lip-the pride of life was on him. He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Ilnto his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole un From the fresh daughters of the earth, and hea Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreames Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, 28 THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noonAnd Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Abides the tempest. Hc rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. I 29 30 THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. He stood a moment-and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke"Isaac! my only son!"-The boy look'd up, And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept. "Where is the lamb, my father?"-Oh the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child - How it doth agonize at such an hour!It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and call'd on GodAnd lo! God's angel stay'd him-and he feli Upon his face, and wept. iI I I I — I THE SHUNAMMITE. Etc Abunuammfte. 1T was a sultry day of summer-time. The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd As if the air had fainted, and the pulse Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. "Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said, "Thy father is athirst"-and, from the depths Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closuly to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills, I I 31 32 THE SHUNAMMITE. And through the light green hollows where the lambs Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reapers' places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withs out of the shining strawCheering their labor on, till they forgot The heat and weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his playful mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast Heaving with the suppression of a cry, He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible. They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon-and then he died' She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon i THE SHUNAMMITE. The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And she had laid back all his sunny curls And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strongHis beauty was so unlike death! She lean'd Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy "-So still! 'Tis a soft sleep! How be-,~u.fl he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek! How could they say that he would die! Oh God! I could not lose him! I have treasured all His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there, Counting like treasures, all his winning waysHis unforgotten sweetness: "-Yet so still!How like this breathless slumber is to death! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse-it beats so languidly! I cannot see it stir; but his red lip! Death would not be so very beautiful! And that half smile-would death have left taat there? -3 I I 33 34 THE SHUNAMMITE. -And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him?-and pray'd Morning and night for him? and could he die? -No-God will keep him! He will be my pride Many long years to come, and his fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of adeeper blue when he is grown; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon hlim!-He to die!" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish -Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hairAnd it was cold-like clay! Slow, very slow, Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestlyAnd put her lip to his-and look'd again Fearfully on him-and, then bending low, She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!-my son!" And as the echo died, and not a sound I THE SHUNAMMITE. Broke on the stillness, and he lay there stillMotionless on her knee-the truth would come! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close Into her bosom-with a mother's thoughtAs if death had no power to touch him there! The man of God came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there-her beautiful-her ownLiving and smiling on her-with his arms Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once mnore! L I I 35 i l 36 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. epti)ab's Zau tt. SHE stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light. quick breath, to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the archling of her queenly neck. i JEPHTHIAH'S DAUGHTER. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it-a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. I have thought A brother's and a sister's love were much; I know a brother's is-for I have been A sister's idol-and I know how full The heart may be of tenderness to her! But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing, as it does, With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on, Through all earth's changes, like a river's courseChasten'd with reverence, and made more pure By the world's discipline of light and shade'Tis deeper-holier. The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. The stately horse treads proudly-he hath trod The brow of death. as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently onTheir weight hath crush'd the fallen. Manisthere 37 38 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. Majestic, lordly man-with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame; Lifting his crest in triumph-for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise, Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride r JEPHTHAHrS DAUGHTER. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things stole up, Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. Oh how beautiful!Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gemAnd her luxuriant hair!-'twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about his neck-he heeded not. She call'd him "Father"'-but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, And spoke the name of God, in agony. 39 40 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. She knew that he was stricken, then; and rush'd Again into his arms; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her-and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said'twas wellAnd she would die. * * * * * The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have pray'd, but had no wordsAnd she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful-her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun setAnd she was dead-but not by violence ABALM 4 btsaIom. THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. Hlow strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion'd for a happier world! King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn I ABSALOM. 41 42 ABSAIFOM.' The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun Rose up m heaven, he knelt among them there, And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. Gums crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such a very mockery-how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel-and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for AbsalomFor his estranged, misguided AbsalomThe proud, bright being, who had burst away In all his pnncely beauty, to defy The heart that cherish'd him-for hirn he pour'd, In agony that would not be controll'd, They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, Oh! when the heart is full-wnen hitter thoughts' Whose love had been his shield-and his deep * * * * * * * * * The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd I 42 ABSALOM. ASSALOM. 43 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet: his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him: and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David enter'd, and he gave command, In a low tone, to lis few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bow'd his head upon him, and bloke forth In the resistless eloquence of wo: 43 ABSALOM. 44 ABSALOM. "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb! My proud boy, Absalom! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet' myfather!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! ifi 44 ABSALOM. ABSALOM. 45 " And now, farewell!'Tis hard to give thee up, I With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!" He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself A moment on his child: then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, ne clasp'd His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently-and left him thereAs if his rest had been a breathing sleep. ifi_ I I I ABSALOM. 45 'I 46 CIIRIST'S ENTRANCE prfst's Entrance tfnto 3terusatem. HE sat upon the "ass's foal" and rode Toward Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd, Closely and silently, the faithful twelve, And on before him went a multitude Shouting IHosannas, and with eager hands Strewing their garments thickly in his way. Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, Tame as its patient dam; and as the song Of "welcome to the Son of David" burst Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, And then, subdued by an invisible hand, Meekdy trode onward with its slender feet. The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods Threv their cool shadows freshly to the west, And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way LA,d head bent low, kept its unslackead way ! I I{ ~ INTO JERUSALEM. 47 Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind Sent o er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised i His calm blue eye-there stood Jerusalem! Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. There stood Jerusalem! how fair she look'd The silver sun on all her palaces, And her fair daughters'mid the golden spires Tendingtheirterrace flowers, and Kedroni's stream Lacing the meadows with its silver band, And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky With the morn's exhalations. There she stoodJerusaliem- -the city of his love, Chosen from all the earth; Jerusalem That knew him not-and had rejected him; Jerusalem-for whom he came to die! The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight; the children leap'd and sang Louder Hosannas; the clear air was fill'd With odor from the trampled olive-leaves But "Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw His Master's tears, and closer to his side He came with yearning looks, and on his neck The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, I i 48 CHRIST'S ENTRANCE And mourn'd-" How oft, Jerusalem! would I Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings-but ye would not!" He thought not of the death that he should dieHe thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce His forehead-of the buffet on the cheekThe scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn!Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, While they who " could not watch with him one hour" Were sleeping, hlie should sweat great drops of blood, Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall, And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were number'd all-the nails were in his feetTh' insulting sponge was pressing on his lipsThe blood and water gushing from his sideThe dizzy faintness swimming in his brainknd, while his own disciples fled in fear, A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his! Ay!-he forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem,-the chos'n- the loved-the lost! I INTO JERUSALEM. He only felt that for her sake his life WVas vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love, The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in black, Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love, In earth or heaven, equal unto this? 4 I I 49 I ti 50 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 3aiptfont d CDrfst. IT was a green spot m the wilderness, Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pmne Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass Of the broad circle stretching evenly To the straight larches, had a heavier foot Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, And, hushing as they spread into the light, Circled the edges of the pebbled tank Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild, Winding the river's course.'Twas near the flush Of eve, and, with a multitude around, Who from the cities had come out to hear, 'He stood breast-high amid the running stream, Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. His simple raiment was of camel's hair, A leathern girdle close about his loins, I I IS BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 51 His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat The locust and wild honey of the wood But like the face of Moses on the mount Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye Burn'd the mild fire of love-and as he spoke The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift I To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole Silent upon the green and sloping bank The people sat, and while the leaves were shook With the birds dropping early to their nests. And the gray eve came on, within their hearts They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast As he divined their thought. "I but baptize," He said, "with water; but there cometh One, The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire And with the Holy Ghost." And lo! while yet The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid His raiment off, and with his loins alone Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, In their angelic slightness, meek and bare, He waited to go in. But John forbade, And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there, I I I I 52 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. And said, "Nay, Master! I have need of thine, Not thou Of mine!" And Jesus, with a smile Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, And answer'd, "Suffer it to be so now; For thus it doth become me to filfil All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, He took around him the Apostle's arm, And drew him gently to the midst. The wood Was thick with the dijn twilight as they came Up from the water With his clasped hands Laid on his breast, ~h' Apostle silently Follow'd his master's steps-when lo! a light, Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away Parted the dim blue ether like a veil; And as a voice, fearful exceedingly, Broke from the midst, "THIS Is MY MUCH LOVED SON IN WHOM I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-white dove, Floating upon its wings, descended through; And shedding a swift music from its plumes, Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. I I I II f SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. Scene fn eetdselltant. THE moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim; And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice, With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear Of his disciples, it vibrated on Like the first whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. HIeaviness oppress'd The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need Of near communion, for his gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there, and went a little on, AIid in the depth of that hush'd silentness, Alone with God, he fell upon his face, And as his heart was broken with the rush I 53 i SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. Of his surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to him from a dying universe, Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, He gave his sorrows way-and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, "Father, if it be possible with thee, Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, Stilleth the press of human agony! The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul; And though his strength was weakness, and the light WVhich led him on till now was sorely dim, He breathed a new submission-" Not my will, But thine be done, oh Father!" As he spoke, Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky As if the stars were swept like instruments. No cloud was visible, but radiant wings Were coming with a silvery rush to earth, And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, With an illumined forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of God, Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him, And nerved him with a ministry of strength. It was enough-and with his godlike brow Re-written of his Father's messenger, 54 SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory, he return'd again To his disciples, and awaked their sleep, For " he that should betray him was at hand.' j I i i II I 55 I 56 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. bte Webw of Snafu. THE Roman sentinel stood helm'd and tall Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread Of comers to the city mart was done, For it was almost noon, and a dead heat Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream WVas broken by the solitary foot Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head To curse him for a tributary Jew, And slumberously dozed on. 'Twas now high noon. The dull, low murmur of a funeral Went through the city-the sad sound of feet Unmix'd with voices-and the sentinel Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide streets along whose paved way I I THE WIDOW OF NAIN. The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, Bearing a body heavily on its bier, And by the crowd that in the burning sun, Walk'd with forgetful sadness,'twas of one Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, Bending beneath their burden. There was oneOnly one mourner.' Close behind the bier, Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. She had no kinsmen. She had lived aloneA widow with one son. He was her allThe only tie she had in the wide worldAnd he was dead. They could not comfort her. Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate The funeral came forth. His lips were pale With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn And simple latchets of his sandals lay, Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying nlot I 57 58 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool, Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. Genesareth stood cool upon the East, Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there The weary traveller might bide till eve; And on the alders of Bethulia's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild; Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, From every swelling mount he saw afar, Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, The place of his next errand; and the path Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near The place of burial, and, with straining hands, Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's, And an inquiring wildness flashing through The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes, She came where Jesus stood beside the way. He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. " Weep not!" he said; and as they stay'd the bier, And at his bidding laid it at his feet, r t I THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 59 He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, And laid it back in silence from the dead. With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, He said, "Arise!" And instantly the breast Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush Ran through the lines of the divided lips, And with a murmur of his mother's name, He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. ) i 60 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 4a(ga i he f e t tenesi. THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew; And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a iAirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd Till the blood started; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, I I I HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 61 As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swvell'd, Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily? His beard Is low upon his breast, and hi high brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. Oh! man may bear with suffering: his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike, in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear 6 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. One chord affection clings to-part one tie That binds him to a woman's delicate loveAnd his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? O no! by all her loveliness-by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness-yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But oh! estrange her once-it boots not howBy wrong or silence-any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness,And there is not a feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. I I i I ! HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. She went her way with a strong step and slowHer press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, As if it were a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through, Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd His hand till it was pain'd; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest! but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines,-and tried to comfort him; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dini and bloodshot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. I i 63 64 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him further on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub, And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd: "God stay thee in thine agony, my boy I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye' And could I see thee die? "I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; Or wiling the soft hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. "Oh no! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, I f HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. How pray'd I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee! "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee! And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; And oh! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there Upon his clustering hair!" She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand I 65 F, 66 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. .Ufp(pab bJftd Der Sons, (The day before they were hanged on Gibeah.) "BREAD for my mother!" said the voice of one Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd upAnd lo! the princely countenance and mien Of dark-brow'd Armoni. The eye of SaulThe very voice and presence of the kingLimb, port, and majesty,-were present there, Mock'd like an apparition in her son. Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to htier hand With a kind smile, a something of his mother Unbent the hauighty arching of his lip, And, through the darkr.ess of the widow's heart Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. " Whence comest thou? said Rizpah. "Fromlhe house Of David. lt his gate there stood a soldierThis in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said, I I I _ _ j~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~' RIZPAHI WITH HER SONS. ' A king's son takes it for his hungry mother!' God stay the famine!" * * * * * * As he spoke, astep, Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd, And like a beam of light into the room Enter'd MeAphibosheth. What bird of heaven Or creature of the wild-what flower of earthWVas like this fairest of the sons of Saul! The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like The iincatrnation of some blessed dream- Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye! Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose; And, but for nostrils of that bl eathing fire That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe As is the velvet muscle of the pard, Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. As if he were a vision that would fade, Rizpali gazed on him. Never, to her eye, Grew his bright form familiar; but, like stars, That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven, He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved I I I 67 68 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, Tenderly, fondly. But for him-the lastWhat had she done for heaven to be his mother! Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice; She look'd at him forever through her tears; Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, As if the lightest thought of him had lain In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. The morning light was part of him, to herWhat broke the day for, but to show his beauty? The hours but measured time till he should come; Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone: Se would have shut the flowers-and call'd the star Back to the mountain-top-and bade the sun Pause at eve's golden door-to wait for him! Was this a heart gone wild?-or is the love Of mothers like a madness? Such as this Is many a poor one in her humble home, Who silently and sweetly sits alone, Pouring her life all out upon her child. What cares she that he does not feel how close Her heart beats after his-that all unseen Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, Andwatch his sleep like angels? And, when moved By some sore needed Providence, he stops In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven, RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. W'hat cares the mother that he does not see! The link between the blessing and her prayer He who once wept with Mary-angels keeping Their unthank'd watch-are a foreshadowing Of what love is in heaven. We may believe That we shall know each other's forms hereafter, And, in the bright fields of the better land, Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart! That in the lone paths of this shadowy world Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining, That broke upon the darkness of thy wayNumber thy lamps of love, and tell me, now, How many canst thou re-light at the stars And blush not at their burning? One-one onlyLit while your pulses by one heart kept time, And fed with faithful fondness to your grave (Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven,) Steadfast thro' all things-near, when most for got And with its fingers of unerring truth Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour One lamp-thy mother's love-amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before The throne of God, burn through eternity Holy-as it was lit and lent thee here. I I I 69 70 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. The hand in salutation gently raised To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, Linger'd amid his locks. "I sold," he said, ." My Lybian barb for but a cake of mealLo! this-my mother! As I pass'd the street, I hid it in my mantle, for there stand Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, At every threshold; anid wild, desperate men Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, Watching to rob those who, from house to house, Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother! Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee!" [UNFINISHED.] I I LAZARUS AND MARY. ialarus ant fuar JESUS was there but yesterday. The prints Of his departing feet were at the door; His "Peace be with-you!" was yet audible In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear; And, in the low rooms,'twas as if the air, Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breath Of angels left on watch-so conscious still The place seem'd of his presenice! Yet, within, The family by Jesus loved were weeping, For Lazarus lay dead. And Mary sat By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt Withl his benignant smile-the soft fair lines Breathing of hope-were still all eloquent, Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven, Toned with unearthly sweetness-that the light, Queneh'd ill the closing of those stirless lids, 71 72 LAZARUS AND MARY. Was veiling before God its timid fire, New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss, Not with this cold clay sleeping-Mary knew. Her heaviness of heart was not for him! But close had been the tie by Death divided. The intertwining locks of that bright hair That wiped the feet of Jesus-the fair hands Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while He taught Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison, Than with one soul this sister and her brother Had lock'd their lives together. In this love, Hallow'd from stain, the woman's heart of Mary Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became An office by archangels fill'd till now, She walk'd with a celestial halo clad; And while, to the Apostles' eyes, it seem'd She but fulfill'd her errand out of heavenSharing her low roof with the Son of GodShe was a woman, fond and mortal still; And the deep fervor, lost to passion's fire, Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay, That it was not her brother. He was thereSwathed in that linen vesture for the graveThe same loved one in all his comeliness I t LAZARUS AND MARY. 73 And with him to the grave her heart must go. Whlat though he talk'd of her to angels? nayHover'd in spirit near her?-'twas that arm, Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew! It was that lip of marble with whose kiss, Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in This was the form by the Judean maids Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd With her by Kedron in the eventideThe deadwas Lazarus! * * * * * The burial was over, and the night Fell upon Bethany-and morn-and noon. And comforters and mourners went their wayBut death stay'd on! They had been oft alone, When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear His teachings in Jerusalem; but this Was more than solitude. The silence now Was void of expectation. Something felt Always before, and loved without a name, Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, Welcome and life from off the very walls,Seem'd gone-and in the chamber where he lay There was a fearful and unbreathing hush, Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary The shadows all have known, who, from their hearts, Have released friends to heaven. The parting soul - 74 LAZARUS AND MARY. Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky! As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun; And, to the eye strain'd after,'tis a cloud That bars the light from all things. Now as Christ Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh When He would go again, as He had said, Unto his Father; and she felt that He, Who loved her brother Lazarus in life, Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death In no unkind forgetfulness. AloneShe could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, "Thy will be done, 0 God!"-but that dear brother Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ; And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus To bind his sandals on, and follow forth With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fairIntent upon the Master's need alone. Indissolubly link'd were they! And now, To go to meet him-Lazarus not thereAnd to his greeting answer "It is well!" And, without tears, (since griefwould trouble Him I i LAZARUS AND MAR Y. 75 Whose soul was always sorrowful,) to kneel And minister alone-her heart gave way! She cover'd up her face and turn'd again To wait within for Jesus. But once more Came Martha, saying, "Lo! the Lord is here And calleth for thee, Mary!" Then arose The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair, And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still, As she made ready to go forth, a calm As in a dream fell on her. At a fount Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near Were the way-worn disciples in the shade; But, of himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd Upon his staff, and watch'd where she should come To whose one sorrow-but a sparrow's fallingThe pity that redeem'd a world could bleed! And as she came, with that uncertain step,Eager, yet weak,-her hands upon her breast,And they who follow'd her all fallen back To leave her with her sacred grief alone,The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near, 76 LAZARUS AND MARY. And the disciples rose up from the fount, Moved by her look of wo, and gather'd round; And Mary-for a moment-ere she look'd Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet,And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew Her clasp upon the folds across her breast; Then, with a vain strife to control her tears, She stagger'd to their midst, and at His feet Fell prostrate, saying, "Lord! hadst thou been here, My brother had not died!" The Saviour groan'd In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised The mourner from the ground, and in a voice, Broke in its utterance like her own, He said, "Where have ye laid him?" Then the Jews who came, Followving Mary, answer'd through their tears, "Lord! come and see!" But lo! the mighty heart That in Gethsemane sweat drops of blood, Taking for us the cup that might not passThe heart whose breaking cord upon the cross Made the earth tremble, and the sun afraid To look upon his agony-the heart Of a lost world's Redeemer-overflow'd, Touch'd by a mourner's sorrow! Jesus wept. Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding ! ! LAZARUS AND MARY. Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother, Stood Mary there; but that lost burden now Lay on His heart who pitied her; and Christ, Following slow, and groaning in Himself, Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, "Take ye away the stone!" Then lifted He His moisten'd eyes to heaven, and while the Jews And the disciples bent their heads in awe, And trembling Mary sank upon her knees, The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased, And for a minute's space there was a hush, As if th' angelic watchers of the world Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things, To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ Shone as He stood, and over Him there came Command, as'twere the living face of God, And with a loud voice, He cried, "Lazarus! Come forth!" And instantly, bound hand and foot, And borne by unseen angels from the cave, He that was dead stood with them. At the word Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed The bands from off the foldings of his shroud; And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside, Ran to him swiftly, and cried, "LAZARUS! MY BROTHER, LAZARUS!" and tore away The napkin she had bound about his head II 77 78 LAZARUS AND MARY. And touch'd the warm lips with her fearful handAnd on his neck fell weeping. And while all Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down And worshipp'd Him who loved them. I . I I THOUGHTS, ETC. 79 ~Tougbts Wtfl makfng the erabe of a .L'