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BT 
 
 N> P. WILLIS. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY CLARK & AUSTIN. 
 
 MDCCCXLVII. 
 
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 of New York. 
 
preface. 
 
 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 ap 
 pealed to a prevalent taste which is in many 
 ways the strength 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 feel 
 ingly, to the American public. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 October, 1846. 
 
 M145533 
 
Contents. 
 
 Pare. 
 
 The 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 
 
 Jephthah 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 
 
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 
 
POEMS. 
 
 STJje Realms of te Jiaujjfrter of $afrus. 
 
 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 trance 
 Her thin jpale fingers clasp d within the hand 
 Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, 
 Like the dead marble, white arid 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 there 
 The 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, 
 
8 
 
 v Sfte errity drew "Ms; hand ji^dn l\e~ lips, 
 
 And kiss d it as she wept. The old man sunk 
 
 Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
 
 Ot 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 could not hear, 
 
 In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
 
 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. ***** 
 
 ****** j t was n ight 
 And, softly, o er the Sea of Galilee, 
 Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
 Tipp d with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
 The breaking waves play d low upon the beach 
 Their 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 in 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 small scrip, and pilgrim s scallop-shell, 
 
DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 
 
 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 was 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 deep 
 And in his looks the same mild majesty 
 And in his mien the sadness mix d with power 
 Fill 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, 
 And 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 
 
 ****** T he same silvery light, 
 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 folds 
 Not even a tassel stirring in the air 
 
DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 11 
 
 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 lay 
 The 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 curls 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 
 
r~ 
 
 12 THE HEALING, ETC. 
 
 Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
 The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
 " Maiden ! Arise . " and suddenly a flush 
 Shot o er her forehead, and along her lips 
 And through her cheek ihe rallied color ran ; 
 And the still outline of her graceful 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 ! 
 
THE LEPER. 13 
 
 " ROOM for the leper ! Room !" And, us 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 coming in, 
 Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 
 Rose the sharp hammer s clink, and the far hum 
 Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, 
 And all that in a city murmur swells 
 Unheard but by the watcher s weary ear, 
 Aching with night s dull silence, or the sick 
 Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase 
 The death-like images of the dark away. 
 " Room for the leper !" And aside they stood 
 Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood 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 painfully and slow, 
 
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. 
 
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 ! 
 
 j 
 
 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 
 I . 
 
16 THE LEPER. 
 
 Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 
 Waiting to hear his doom : 
 
 Depart ! depart, 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 in 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 trees 
 
THE LEPER. it 
 
 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 I 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 I O leper ! and forget not God ! 
 
 And he went forth alone ! not one of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was 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. 
 
18 THE LEPER. 
 
 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 Helen s eye 
 As he beheld the stranger. He 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 ; 
 
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. 
 
20 DAVID S GRIEF 
 
 s 6frfef for f)fs 
 
 TWAS daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn 
 
 Drew the night s curtain, and touch d silently 
 
 The 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 along the tesselat.ed 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 the fountain s lip ; 
 For, with idolatry confess d alone 
 To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp, 
 He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when 
 The golden selvedge of his robe was heard 
 _ , __ 1 
 
FOR HIS CHILD. 21 
 
 Sweeping the marble pavement, from within 
 Broke forth a child s laugh suddenly, and words- 
 Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only- 
 Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy 
 An 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 ; 
 
22 DAVID S GRIEF 
 
 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 
 Was 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 frighted child, 
 He drew him to his breast, and cover d him 
 With 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 the 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, 
 
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 
 j That, all the night, within the spacious court, 
 , Had drawn 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 d 
 ] So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, 
 She watch d his breathless slumber. The low 
 
 moan 
 
 That from his lips all night broke fitfully, 
 Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile 
 Or something that would fain have been a smile 
 Play 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 Bathsheba in silence bless d the morn 
 That brought back hope to her ! But when the 
 
 king 
 
 Heard not the voice of the complaining child, 
 1 Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir 
 
24 DAVID S GRIEF 
 
 I But morning there so weleomeless and still 
 ; He groan d and turn d upon his face. The nights 
 | Had wasted ; and the mornings come ; and days 
 I Crept through the sky, unnumber d by the king, 
 Since the child sicken d ; and r without the door, 
 Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had Iain- 
 Listening only to the moans that brought 
 Their inarticulate tidings, and the 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 ear 
 The 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 Bathsheoa 
 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. 
 
FOR HIS CHILD. 25 
 
 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 weep 
 For, while the child was sick, his agony 
 Would bear no comforters, and they had thought 
 His heartstrings with the tidings must give way 
 Behold ! his face grew calm, 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 ate 
 And when they marvelPd, he said, " Wherefore 
 
 mourn 1 
 
 The child is dead, and I shall go to him 
 But he will not return to me." 
 
26 THE SACRIFICE 
 
 2E|)e Sacrifice of Sforafcam. 
 
 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. 
 How hallow d is the hour of morning ! meet- 
 Ay, 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 seemcth 
 To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, 
 And boweth to his staff as at the hour 
 
OF ABRAHAM. 27 
 
 Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun- 
 He 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 up, 
 E en in his fair-hair d beauty, to be slain 
 As a white lamb for sacrifice 1 They trod 
 Together onward, patriarch and child 
 The bright sun throwing back the old man s shade 
 In straight and fair proportions, as of one 
 Whose years were freshly number d. He stood up, 
 Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree 
 Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. 
 His 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 rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. 
 But the young boy- -he of the laughing eye 
 
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 
 
 Into 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 up 
 
 From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat 
 
 Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, 
 
 And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. 
 
 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, 
 
OF ABRAHAM. 29 
 
 Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness 
 
 Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 
 
 To toss his stinny 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 noon 
 
 And 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. He rose up, and laid 
 The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
 
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, m> 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 God 
 And lo ! God s angel stay d him and he fell 
 Upon his face, and wept. 
 
 I __J_ _] 
 
THE SirUNAMMITE. 31 
 
 2T|)e JSfwnammfte. 
 
 IT 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 closely to the cool 
 Stone vessel, and his little naked feet 
 Lifted with watchful care ; and o er the hills, 
 
j 32 THE SHUNAMMITE. 
 
 j 
 
 j 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, 
 I But with a joyous industry went forth 
 i Into the reapers places, and bound up 
 ] His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
 | The pliant withs out of the shining straw 
 i Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
 I The heat and weariness of their stooping toil 
 i 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 motherland he lay 
 Upon her knees till noon and then he died ! 
 j She had watch d every breath, and kept her hand 
 ; Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon 
 
THE SHUNAMMITE. 33 
 
 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 strong 
 His 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 beautiful he lies, 
 With his fair forehead, nd 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 ways 
 His 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 hare left that 
 there ? 
 
 3 
 
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 1 and could he die 1 
 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 a deeper blue when he is grown ; 
 And he will be so tall, and I shall look 
 With such a pride upon him ! 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 hair 
 And 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 earnestly 
 ,And 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 
 
THE SHUNAMMITE. 35 
 
 Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still 
 Motionless 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 thought 
 As 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 own 
 Living 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 more ! 
 
36 JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER. 
 
 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, 
 W r as 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 arclu ng of her queenly neck. 
 
JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 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 course 
 
 Chasten 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 on 
 Their weight hath crush d the fallen. Man is there 
 
38 JEPHTHAIl 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 ; arid the look 
 Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, 
 Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts 
 Seern 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 
 
JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 He gazed intensely forward. The tail 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 gem 
 And 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. 
 Ha 1 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. 
 
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 well 
 
 And 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 palLd mail 
 Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, 
 As if he would have pray d, but had no words 
 And 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 set 
 And she was dead but not by violence 
 
41 
 
 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. 
 How 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 ; arid 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 
 
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was siraighten d for the grave ; and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betray d 
 
 42 ABSALOM. 
 
 I 
 
 The mourner s covering, and he bad not felt 
 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 
 They gather d round him on the fresh green bank, 
 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, 
 
 And bow d his head upon his hands to pray. 
 
 Oh ! when the heart is full wnen bitter thoughts 
 
 Come 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 pray d for Israel and his voice went up 
 
 Strongly and fervently. He pray d for those 
 
 Whose love had been his shield and his deep 
 
 tones 
 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherish d him for him he pour d, 
 In agony that would not be controlled, 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
 Before his God, for his deep smfulness. 
 
ABSALOM. 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 his 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 broke forth 
 
 In the resistless eloquence of wo : 
 
44 
 
 " 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 my father ." 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 w r ill pass me in the mantling blush, 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall 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 1 depart, 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death s gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
ABSALOM. 45 
 
 " And now, farewell ! Tis hard to give thee up, 
 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, he 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 there 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
46 CHRIST S ENTRANCE 
 
 (Efmst s Entrance into Serusalem. 
 
 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 Hosannas, 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, 
 Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 
 
 The dew s last sparkle from the grass had gone 
 As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods 
 Threw 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 
 
I 
 
 INTO JERUSALEM. 47 
 
 Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind 
 Sent o er the mount from Jordan. As he reach d 
 j The summit s breezy pitch, the Saviour raised 
 j His calm blue eye there stood Jerusalem ! 
 | Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
 I His mantle s passive folds, a bolder line 
 I Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs 
 j Betray d the swelling fulness of his heart. 
 i There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look d 
 | The silver sun on all her palaces, 
 j And her fair daughters mid the golden spires 
 j Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron s stream 
 j Laciag the meadows with its silver band, 
 ! And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 
 | With the morn s exhalations. There she stood 
 j Jerusalem the city of his love, 
 Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem 
 That knew him not and had rejected him ; 
 j 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 
 j His Master s tears, and closer to his side 
 He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 
 j The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, 
 
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 die- 
 He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce 
 His forehead of the buffet on the cheek 
 The 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, he 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 feet 
 Th insulting sponge was pressing on his lips 
 The blood and water gushing from his side 
 The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain 
 And, 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 ! 
 
INTO JERUSALEM. 49 j 
 
 j i 
 
 | He only felt that for her sake his life 
 
 j Was 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 1 
 
50 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 
 
 3Saj)tfom of 
 
 IT was a green spot in the wilderness, 
 Touch d by the river Jordan. The dark pine 
 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, 
 
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 
 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, 
 
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 fulfil 
 
 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 dim twilight as they came 
 
 Up from the water. With his clasped hands 
 
 Laid on his breast, th 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 ; 
 
 Arid 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. 
 
SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. 53 
 
 Scene fit <et!)$emane. 
 
 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. Heaviness 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, 
 And 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 
 
54 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 
 
 \Vhich 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 rftdiant 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, 
 
SCENE IN GETIISEMANE. 55 
 
 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." 
 
56 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 
 2Tf)e SUfooto of Wafn, 
 
 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 
 Was 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, arid gazed earnestly 
 Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
 
THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 57 
 
 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 one- 
 Only 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 alone 
 A widow with one son. He was her all 
 The only tie she had in the wide world 
 And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 
 
 Jesus d/ew 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 ih ckly on his brow, and on the worn 
 And simple latchets of his sandals lay, 
 Thick, the while dust of travel. He had come 
 Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
 
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. 
 41 Weep not !" he said ; and as they stay d the bier, 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet, 
 
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. 
 
GO HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 fit tfje OT fitter ness. 
 
 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, 
 j And every thing that bendeth to the dew ; 
 I And stirre.h 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 mirth 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, 
 
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 swell d, 
 Had they but match d his spirit, to the man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his staff so wearily 1 His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and his 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 
 
62 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 One chord affection clings to part one tie 
 That binds him to a woman s delicate love 
 And 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 ? 
 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 how 
 By 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. 
 
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 63 
 
 She went her way with a strong step and slow 
 Her 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, I 
 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 dim 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. 
 
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 ; J 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 1 
 
 " 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, 
 
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 65 
 
 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. 
 
66 R1ZPAH WITH HER SONS. 
 
 toft!) fjer Sons, 
 
 (7%e day before they were hanged on Gibeah.) 
 " BREAD for my mother !" said the voice of one 
 Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look d up 
 And lo ! the princely countenance and mien 
 Of dark-brow d Armoni. The eye of Saul 
 The very voice and presence of the king 
 Limb, port, and majesty, were present there, 
 Mock d like an apparition in her son. 
 Yet, as he stoopM his forehead to her hand 
 With a kind smile, a something of his mother 
 Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, 
 And, through the darkness 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. 
 
 " From the house 
 
 Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier 
 This in his hand. I pluck d it, and I said, 
 
RIZPAII WITH HER SONS. 67 
 
 * A king s son takes it for his hungry mother ! 
 God stay the famine !" 
 
 * * * As he spoke, a step, 
 Light as an antelope s, the threshold press d, 
 And like a beam of light into the room 
 Enter d Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven 
 Or creature of the wild what flower of earth- 
 Was 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 incarnation 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 breathing 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, 
 Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, 
 G rew 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 
 
RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. 
 
 Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, 
 Tenderly, fondly. But for him the last 
 What 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 her 
 What 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 ; 
 She 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 thaAie does not feel how close 
 Her heart beats after his that all unseen 
 Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, 
 And watch 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. 69 
 
 What 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 way 
 Number 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 only 
 Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, 
 And fed with faithful fondness to your grave 
 tTho 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. 
 
70 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. 
 
 The hand in salutation gently raised 
 To the bow d forehead of the princely > oy, 
 Linger d amid his locks. " I sold," Le said, 
 " My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal 
 Lo ! 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 ; and wild, desperate men 
 Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, 
 Watching to rob those who, from house to hous< 
 Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother ! 
 Thy sons will be Elijah s ravens to thee !" 
 
 [UNFINISHED.] 
 
LAZARUS AND MARY. 71 
 
 ant! 
 
 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 presence ! 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 
 With his benignant srnile 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, 
 Quench d. in the closing of those stirless lids, 
 
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 filPd 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 heaven 
 Sharing her low roof with the Son of God- 
 She 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 there 
 Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave 
 The same loved one in all his comeliness 
 
LAZARUS AND MARY. 73 
 
 And with him to the grave her heart must go. 
 What though he talk d of her to angels ? nay 
 Hover 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 eventide 
 The dead was Lazarus ! ***** 
 The burial was over, and the night 
 Fell upon Bethany and morn and noon. 
 And comforters and mourners went their way 
 But 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, f 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. Alone 
 She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, 
 " Thy will be done, O 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 fair- 
 Intent upon the Master s need alone. 
 Indissolubly link d were they ! And now, 
 To go to meet him Lazarus not there 
 And to his greeting answer "It is well !" 
 And, without tears, (since grief would trouble Him 
 
LAZARUS A\D MARY. 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 falling 
 The 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 straighteri 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, 
 
 Following 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 pass 
 The 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 overflowed, 
 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 Tr oice, 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 
 
78 LAZARUS AND MARY. 
 
 And touch d the warm lips with her fearful hand- 
 And 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. 
 
THOUGHTS, ETC. 79 
 
 tojnle mafcfnij t&e rabe of a 
 <hfitj. 
 
 ROOM, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to 
 
 heaven ! 
 : Ye look d not for her yet with your soft eyes, 
 
 watchful ushers at Death s narrow door ! 
 Hut lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
 Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
 i- rorn lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
 Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
 The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
 
 i Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! 
 ; But not that from this cup of bitterness 
 ! A cherub of the sky has turn d away. 
 
 i One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
 | My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
 j My daughter ! With thy birth has gush d a spring j 
 
 1 knew not of filling my heart with tears, 
 And turning with strange tenderness to thee 
 A love oh God ! it seems so that must flow 
 
80 THOUGHTS, ETC. 
 
 Far as thou fleest, and twixt heaven and me, 
 Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
 Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 
 Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows 
 No place to treasure up its loved and lost 
 But the foul grave ! Thou, who so late wast 
 
 sleeping 
 
 Warm in the close fold of a mother s heart, 
 Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 
 But it was sent thee with some tender thought, 
 How can I leave thee here ! Alas for man ! 
 The herb in its humility may fall 
 And waste into the bright and genial air, 
 While we by hands that minister d in life 
 Nothing but love to us are thrust away 
 The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, 
 And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 
 
 Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
 A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
 And thought how little it would seem like death 
 To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
 Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
 That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, 
 Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
 The birds are never silent that build here, 
 Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : 
 
THOUGHTS, ETC. 81 
 
 The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
 j And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
 i Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
 j Pointing the living after thee. And this 
 ; Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
 i The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
 I To whisper the same peace to ner who lies 
 Robb d of her child and lonely. Tis the work 
 ; Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
 To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 
 : Hope must give o er, and busy fancy blot 
 ! The images from all the silent rooms, 
 And every sight and sound familiar to her 
 Undo its sweetest link and so at last 
 The fountain that, once struck, must flow for 
 ever 
 
 < Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
 i Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
 i Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, 
 j And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
 Look on each other cheerfully, and say : 
 A child that we have loved is gone to heaven, 
 And by this gate of flowers she passed away ! 
 
82 ON THE DEPARTURE 
 
 <Dn t&e departure of met. M 
 
 FROM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN PRESIDENT OF WA- 
 BASH COLLEGE. 
 
 LEAVE us not, man of prayer ! Like Paul, hast 
 
 thou 
 
 " Served God with all humility of mind." 
 Dwelling among us, and " with many tears," 
 "From house to house," "by night and day not 
 
 ceasing," 
 
 Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not ! 
 Leave us not now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long 
 Link d with thy voice the prelude to thy prayer 
 The call to us from heaven to come with thee 
 Into the house of God, and, from thy lips, 
 Hear what had fall n upon thy heart will sound 
 Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone ! 
 Our prayers are in thy words our hope in Christ 
 Warm d on thy lips our darkling thoughts of God 
 Follow d thy loved call upward and so knit 
 Is all our worship with those outspread hands, 
 And the imploring voice, which, well we knew, 
 
OF REV. MR. WHITE. 83 
 
 Sank in the ear of Jesus that, with thee, 
 The angel s ladder seems removed from sight, 
 And we astray in darkness ! Leave us not ! 
 Leave not the dead! They have lain calmly 
 
 down 
 
 Thy comfort in their ears believing well 
 That when thine own more holy work was done, 
 Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near 
 When the last trump shall summon, to fold up 
 Thy flock affrighted, and, with that same voice 
 Whose whisper d promises could sweeten death, 
 Take up once more the interrupted strain, 
 And wait Christ s coming, saying, " Here am I, 
 And those whom thou hast given me !" Leave not 
 The old, who, mid the gathering shadows, cling 
 To their accustom d staff, and know not how 
 To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour ! 
 Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be 
 Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine ! 
 Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth d the 
 
 heart 
 
 Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not 
 The child thou hast baptized ! another s care 
 May not keep bright, upon the mother s heart, 
 The covenant seal ; .the infant s ear has caught 
 Words it has strangely ponder d from thy lips, 
 And the remember d tone may find again, 
 
84 ON THE DEPARTURE, ETC. 
 
 And quicken for the harvest, the first seed 
 Sown for eternity ! Leave not the child ! 
 
 Yet if thou wilt if, " bound in spirit," thou 
 Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, 
 " The will of God be done !" We do not say 
 Remember us thou wilt in love and prayer ! 
 And thou wilt be remember d by the dead, 
 When the last trump awakes them by the old, 
 When, of the "silver cord" whose strength thou 
 
 knowest, 
 
 The last thread fails by the bereaved and stricken, ; 
 When the dark cloud, wherein thou found st a spot ; 
 Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again 
 By the sad mother, pleading for her child, 
 In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone 
 By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell 
 Brings us together, and the closing hymn 
 Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, 
 That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 
 Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not 
 Upon our listening ears remernber d thus 
 Remember d well in all our holiest hours- 
 Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost ! 
 And ever with one prayer, for which our love 
 Will find the pleading words, that in the light 
 ; Of heaven we may behold his face once more ! 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 85 
 
 Verses, 
 
 "The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the 
 only one that cannot forget that it has loved us." 
 
 Philip Slingsby. 
 
 MY birth-day ! Oh beloved mother ! 
 
 My heart is with thee o er the seas. 
 I did not think to count another 
 
 Before I wept upon thy knees 
 Before this scroll of absent years 
 Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 
 
 My own I do not care to check. 
 
 1 weep albeit here alone 
 As if I hung upon thy neck, 
 
 As if thy lips were on my own, 
 As if this full, sad heart of mine, 
 Were beating closely upon thine. 
 
 Four weary years ! How looks she now ? 
 What light is in those tender eyes ? 
 
86 BIRTH -DAY VERSES. 
 
 What trace of time has touch d the brow 
 Whose look is borrow d of the skies 
 
 That listen to her nightly prayer ? 
 
 How is she changed since he was there 
 
 Who sleeps upon her heart alway 
 Whose name upon her lips is worn 
 
 For whom the night seems made to pray 
 For whom she wakes to pray at morn 
 
 Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 
 
 Who w r eeps these tears to think of her I 
 
 I know not if my mother s eyes 
 
 Would find me changed in slighter things ; 
 I ve wander d beneath many skies, 
 
 And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
 And many leaves, once fair and gay, 
 From youth s full flower have dropp d away 
 But, as these looser leaves depart, 
 
 The lessen d flower gets near the core, 
 And, when deserted quite, the heart 
 
 Takes closer what was dear of yore 
 And yearns to those who loved it first 
 The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was 
 
 nursed. 
 
 Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? 
 Am I remember d in my home ? 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 87 
 
 When those I love for joy are met, 
 Does some one wish that I would come ? 
 
 Thou dost I am beloved of these ! 
 But, as the schoolboy numbers o er 
 
 Night after night the Pleiades 
 And finds the stars he found before 
 
 As turns the maiden oft her token- 
 As counts the miser aye his gold 
 
 So, till life s silver cord is broken, 
 Would I of thy fond love be told. 
 
 My heart is full, mine eyes are wet 
 Dear mother ! dost thou love thy long-lost wan 
 derer yet ? 
 
 Oh ! when the hour to meet again 
 
 Creeps on and, speeding o er the sea, 
 My heart takes up its lengthen d chain, 
 
 And, link by link, draws nearer thee 
 When land is hail d, and, from the shore, 
 
 Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
 With fragrance from my mother s door 
 
 Of flowers forgotten when I come 
 When port is gain d, and slowly now, 
 
 The old familiar paths are pass d, 
 And, entering unconscious how 
 
 I gaze upon thy face at last, 
 And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 And feel thy tears upon my cheek 
 Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, 
 
 The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 
 And I shall grow once more a boy : 
 
 And, mother ! twill be like a dream 
 That we were parted thus for years, 
 And once that we have dried our tears, 
 How will the days seern long and bright 
 
 To meet thee always with the morn, 
 And hear thy blessing every night 
 
 Thy " dearest," thy " first-born T" 
 And be no more, as now, in a strange land, for 
 lorn! 
 
TO MY MOTHER, ETC. 89 
 
 ntg J&ottjer from tfje 
 
 Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst 
 
 As I hung at thy bosom, dung round thee first. 
 
 Twas the earliest link in love s warm chain 
 
 Tis the only one that will long 1 remain: 
 
 And as year by year, and day by day, 
 
 Some friend still trusted drops away, 
 
 Mother! dear mother! oh dost thou see 
 
 How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee 1 
 
 Early Poems. 
 
 Tis midnight the lone mountains on 
 The East is fleck d with cloudy bars, 
 
 And, gliding through them one by one, 
 The moon walks up her path of stars 
 
 The light upon her placid brow 
 
 Received from fountains unseen now. 
 
 And happiness is mine to-night, 
 Thus springing from an unseen fount ; 
 
 And breast and brain are warm with light, 
 With midnight round me on the mount 
 
90 TO MY MOTHER, ETC. 
 
 Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow 
 From that far Western star below. 
 
 Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 
 
 The life thou gav st flows yet from thee- 
 And, sun-like, thou hast power to give 
 
 Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 
 Though wandering, as this moon above, 
 I m dark without thy constant love. 
 
LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 91 
 
 3Lints on leabfnjj 3Europe. 
 
 BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast ! 
 
 Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
 
 And point as Freedom s eagle flew ! 
 Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars ! 
 Point home, my country s flag of stars ! 
 
 The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 
 
 The pressure of the rising breeze, 
 And, swiftest of a thousand keels, 
 
 She leaps to the careering seas ! 
 Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, 
 
 In whose white breast I seem to lie, 
 How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 
 
 I ve seen your semblance in the sky, 
 And long d with breaking heart to flee 
 On cloud-like pinions o er the sea ! 
 
 Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! 
 I turn to watch our foamy track, 
 
I 92 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 And thoughts with which I first beheld 
 
 Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; 
 My lips are dry with vague desire, 
 
 My cheek once more is hot with joy 
 My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! 
 
 Oh, what has changed that traveller-boy ! 
 As leaves the ship this dying foam, 
 His visions fade behind his weary heart speeds , 
 
 home ! 
 
 Adieu, oh soft and southern shore, 
 
 Where dwelt the stars long miss d in heaven 
 Those forms of beauty seen no more, 
 
 Yet once to Art s rapt vision given ! 
 Oh, still th enamor d sun delays, 
 
 And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
 To win to his adoring gaze 
 
 Those children of the sky again ! 
 Irradiate beauty, such as never 
 
 That light on other earth hath shone, 
 Hath made this land her home forever ; 
 
 And could I live for this alone 
 Were not my birthright brighter far 
 
 Than such voluptuous slaves, can be 
 Held not the West one glorious star 
 
 New-born and blazing for the free 
 Soar d not to heaven our eagle yet 
 
LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 93 
 
 Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to 
 forget ! 
 
 Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see 
 
 Your white cliifs on th horizon s rim, 
 And though to freer skies I flee 
 
 My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! 
 As knows the dove the task you give her, 
 
 When loosed upon a foreign shore 
 As spreads the rain-drop in the river 
 
 In which it may have flow d before 
 To England, over vale and mountain, 
 
 My fancy flew from climes more fair 
 My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 
 
 Ran warm and fast in England s air. 
 
 Dear mother ! in thy prayer, to-night, 
 
 There come new words and warmer tears ! 
 On long, long darkness breaks the light 
 
 Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
 Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! 
 
 Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
 The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 
 
 He comes to shore who sails with me ! 
 The spider knows the roof unriven, 
 
 While swings his web, though lightnings 
 blaze 
 
94 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 And by a thread still fast, on heaven, 
 I know my mother lives and prays ! 
 
 Dear mother ! when our lips can speak 
 
 When first our tears will let us see 
 When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 
 
 And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me 
 Twill be a pastime little sad 
 
 To trace what weight Time s heavy fingers 
 Upon each other s forms have had 
 
 For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! 
 But there s a change, beloved mother ! 
 
 To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
 I come but with me comes another 
 
 To share the heart once only mine ! 
 Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 
 
 One star arose in memory s heaven 
 Thou, who hast watch d one treasure only 
 
 Water d one flower with tears at even 
 Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 
 
 Is darken d to lend light to ours ! 
 There are bright flowers of care bereft, 
 
 And hearts that languish more than flowers ! 
 She was their light their very air 
 Room, mother ! in thy heart ! place for her in thy 
 
 prayer ! 
 
A TRUE INCIDENT. 95 
 
 C true KncfBent 
 
 UPON a summer s morn, a southern mother 
 
 Sat at the curtain d window of an inn. 
 
 She rested from long travel, and with hand 
 
 Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, 
 
 Look d where the busy travellers went and came. 
 
 And, like the shadows of the swallows flying 
 
 Over the bosom of unruffled water, 
 
 Pass d from her thoughts all objects, leaving there, 
 
 As in the water s breast, a mirror d heaven 
 
 For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro, 
 
 A nurse walk d singing with her babe in arms. 
 
 And many a passer-by look d on the child 
 
 And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on 
 
 The old nurse troll d her lullaby, and still, 
 
 Blest through her depths of soul by light there i 
 
 shining, 
 
 The mother in her revery mused on. 
 But lo ! another traveller alighted ! 
 And now, no more indifferent or calm, 
 
f 
 
 96 A TRUE INCIDENT. 
 
 The mother s breath comes quick, and with the 
 
 blood 
 
 Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, 
 " Now, God be praised ! I am no more alone 
 In knowing I ve an angel for my child, 
 Chance he to look on t only !" With a smile 
 The tribute of a beauty-loving heart 
 To things from God new-moulded would have 
 
 pass d 
 
 The poet, as the infant caught his eye ; 
 But suddenly he turn d, and with his hand 
 Upon the nurse s arm, he stay d her steps, 
 And gazed upon her burthen, Twas a child 
 In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, 
 Something to waken wonder. Never sky 
 In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn 
 Never the dew in new-born violet s cup, 
 Lay so entranced in purity ! Not calm, 
 With the mere hush of infancy at rest, 
 The ample forehead, but serene with though! ; 
 And by the rapt expression of the lips, 
 They seem d scarce still from a cherubic hymn ; 
 And over all its countenance there breathed 
 Benignity, majestic as we dream 
 Angels wear ever, before God, With gaze 
 Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm 
 With tears kept back, the poet kiss d the child ; 
 
A TRUE INCIDENT. 97 
 
 And chasten d at his heart, as having pass d 
 Close to an angel, went upon his way. 
 
 Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven 
 I This cherub was recall d, and now the mother 
 j Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard 
 i (Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart 
 j Familiar to the world,) and wrote to tell him, 
 The angel he had recognised that morn, 
 Had fled to bliss again. The poet well 
 Remember d that child s ministry to him ; 
 And of the only fountain that he knew 
 For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. 
 And thus lie wrote : 
 Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven, 
 
 Ere stain on its purity fell . 
 
 To thy questioning heart, lo I an answer from heaven: 
 " Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD ?" " IT IS WELL !" 
 
98 THE MOTHER 
 
 J&ot&er to fjer 
 
 THEY tell me thou art come from a far world, 
 Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, 
 Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, 
 Move with the memory of flighst scarce o er 
 That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
 Steep d in the blue of its remember d home ; 
 And while thou sleep st come messengers, they ; 
 
 say, 
 
 Whispering to thee and tis then I see 
 Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! 
 
 And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 
 Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, 
 To find thy way through darkness home again ? 
 Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 
 Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, 
 The cherub and the angel thou mayst be, 
 A life s probation in this sadder world ? 
 ; Art thou with memory of two things only, 
 | Music and light, left upon earth astray, 
 And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
 
TO HER CHILD. 99 
 
 Look d for with fear and trembling? 
 
 God ! who gavest 
 
 Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
 To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
 I tread with steps so faltering leave not me 
 To bring her to the gates of heaven alone ! 
 I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on 
 The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 
 Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
 The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! 
 And let the light and music, which the world 
 Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
 Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
 A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
 To lead her steps unto Thee ! 
 
100 
 
 ober a (Eratile. 
 
 1 SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
 Child of my love ! I tremble to believe 
 That o er the mirror of that eye of blue 
 The shadow of my heart will always pass ; 
 A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
 Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
 And, careless of the staining dust it brings, 
 Asks for its idol ! Strange that flowers of earth 
 Are visited by every air that stirs, 
 And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
 That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 
 May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
 And bear the blight forever. 
 
 I have wept 
 
 With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
 My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! 
 Thou know st how heavily my heart at times 
 Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast given 
 To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, 
 To bring it unpolluted unto thee, 
 
OVFJR ^L ^CRJMILE. 101 
 
 Take thou its loj#, I pray thee ! Give it light- 
 Though, following th sun, i turn frcrr" me ( ; 
 But, by the chord thus -wi any, and by fie li^tii ; 
 Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
 And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! 
 
102 
 
 "The years of a man s life are threescore and ten. 
 
 OH, weary heart ! thou rt half-way home ! 
 
 We stand on life s meridian height 
 As far from childhood s morning come, 
 
 As to the grave s forgetful night. 
 Give Youth and Hope a parting tear 
 
 Look onward with a placid brow 
 Hope promised but to bring us here, 
 
 And Reason takes the guidance now- 
 One backward look the last the last ! 
 One silent tear for Youth is past ! 
 
 Who goes with Hope and Passion back 1 
 Who comes with me and Memory on ? 
 
 Oh, lonely looks the downward track- 
 Joy s music hush d Hope s roses gone ! 
 
 To Pleasure and her giddy troop 
 Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 
 
 But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 
 To think that Love may leave us here ! 
 
THIRTY-FIVE. 103 
 
 Have we no charm when Youth is flown 
 Midway to death left sad and lone ! 
 
 Yet stay ! as twere a twilight star 
 
 That sends its thread across The wave, 
 I see a brightening light, from far, 
 
 Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 
 And now bless God ! its golden line 
 
 Comes o er and lights my shadowy way 
 And shows the dear hand clasp d in mine ! 
 But, list what those sweet voices say ! 
 The better land s in sight, 
 And, by its chastening light, 
 All love from life s midway is driven, 
 Save hers whose clasped hand will bring thee on to 
 heaven ! 
 
104 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 Contemplation, 
 
 " THEY are all up the innumerable stars 
 And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have 
 
 been 
 Searching the pearly depths through which they 
 
 spring 
 
 Like beautiful creations, till I feel 
 As if it were a new and perfect world, 
 Waiting in silence for the word of God 
 To breathe it into motion. There they stand, 
 Shining in order, like a living hymn 
 Written in light, awaking at the breath 
 Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him 
 Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. 
 I would I had an eagle s ear to list 
 That melody. I would that I might float 
 Up in that boundless element and feel 
 Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse 
 Beating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst 
 For music rarer music ! I would bathe 
 
CONTEMPLATION. 105 
 
 - My soul in a serener atmosphere 
 -. Than this ; I long to mingle with the flock 
 Led by the living waters, and to stray 
 In the green pastures of the better land ! 
 When wilt thou break, dull fetter ! When shall I 
 Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought 
 Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven !" > 
 Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom 
 Life had been like the witching of a dream, 
 Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born 
 Of a high race, and lay upon the knee. 
 With her soft eyes perusing listlessly 
 The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, 
 Grasp d at the tesselated squares inwrought 
 With metals curiously. Her childhood pass d 
 Like faery amid fountains and green haunts 
 Trying her little feet upon a lawn 
 Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers 
 In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair 
 And pearly altar to crush incense on. 
 Her youth oh ! that was queenly ! She was like 
 A dream of poetry that may riot be 
 Written or told exceeding beautiful ! 
 And so came worshippers ; and rank bow d down 
 And breathed upon her heart-strings with the 
 
 breath 
 
 Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously 
 
106 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step 
 A majesty as if she trod the sea, 
 And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her ! 
 And so she grew to woman her mere look 
 Strong as a monarch s signet, and her hand 
 The ambition of a kingdom. From all this 
 Turn d her high heart away ! She had a mind, 
 Deep, and immortal, and it would not feed 
 On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
 Of a serener element, and drank 
 Philosophy, and for a little while 
 She was allay d, till, presently, it turn d 
 Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 
 Faint for undying water. Then she came 
 To the pure fount of God, and is athirst 
 No more save when the fever of the world 
 Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, 
 
 1 Out in the star-light quietness, and breathe 
 
 ; A holy aspiration after Heaven. 
 
ON THE DEATH, ETC. 107 
 
 t|je Beat]) of a 
 
 How beautiful it is for man to die 
 Upon the walls of Zion ! to be call d, 
 Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel, 
 To put his armor off, and rest in heaven ! 
 
 The sun was setting on Jerusalem, 
 
 The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light 
 
 Was pouring on the dome of Omar s mosque, 
 
 Like molten silver. Every thing was fair ; 
 
 And beauty hung upon the painted fanes ; 
 
 Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave 
 
 Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men 
 
 Were in the busy streets, and nothing look d 
 
 Like wo, or suifering, save one small train 
 
 Bearing the dead to burial. It pass d by, 
 
 And left no trace upon the busy throng. 
 
 The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout 
 
 Of joyous revelry, and the low hum 
 
 Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ! 
 
 Life look d as winning ; and the earth and sky, 
 
108 
 
 ON THE DEATH 
 
 And every thing seem d strangely bent to make 
 
 A contrast to that comment upon life. 
 
 How wonderful it is that human pride 
 
 Can pass that touching moral as it does 
 
 Pass it so frequently, in all the force 
 
 Of mournful and most simple eloquence 
 
 And learn no lesson ! They bore on the dead, 
 
 With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not 
 
 By the rude multitude, save, here and there, 
 
 A look of vague inquiry, or a curse 
 
 Half-mutter d by some haughty Turk whose sleeve 
 
 Had touch d the tassel of the Christian s pall. 
 
 And Israel too pass d on the trampled Jew ! 
 
 Israel ! who made Jerusalem a throne 
 
 For the wide world pass d on as carelessly ; 
 
 Giving no look of interest to tell 
 
 The shrouded dead was any thing to her. 
 
 Oh that they would be gather d as a brood 
 
 Is gather d by a parent s sheltering wings ! 
 
 They laid him down with strangers ; for his home 
 
 Was with the setting sun, and they who stood 
 
 And look d so steadfastly upon his grave, 
 
 Were not his kindred ; but they found him there, 
 
 And loved him for his ministry of Christ. 
 
 He had died young. But there are silver d heads 
 
 Whose race of duty is less nobly run. 
 
OF A MISSIONARY. 109 
 
 His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 
 
 As was a mother s love, and the sweet ties 
 
 Religion makes so beautiful at home, 
 
 He flung them from him in his eager race, 
 
 And sought the broken people of his God, 
 
 To preach to them of JESUS. There was one, 
 
 Who was his friend and helper. One who went 
 
 And knelt beside him at the sepulchre 
 
 Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. 
 
 They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit 
 
 With more than human love. God call d him 
 
 home. 
 
 And he of whom I speak stood up alone, 
 And in his broken-heartedness wrought on 
 Until his Master call d him. 
 
 Oh, is it not a noble thing to die 
 As dies the Christian, with his armor on ! 
 What is the hero s clarion, though its blast 
 Ring with the mastery of a world, to this 1 
 What are the searching victories of mind 
 The lore of vanish d ages ? What are all 
 The trumpetings of proud humanity, 
 To the short history of him who made 
 His sepulchre beside the King of kings 1 
 
110 ON THE PICTURE OF 
 
 t&e picture of a " CfrfZlr tfreU of 
 
 TIRED of play ! Tired of play ! 
 
 What hast thou done this livelong day ! 
 
 j The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
 
 j The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 
 ! The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 
 
 | Twilight gathers, and day is done- 
 How hast thou spent it restless one ! 
 
 i Playing? But what hast thou done beside 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven 1 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou learn d by field and hill, 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 
 
 ! There will come an eve to a longer day, 
 
A " CHILD TJRED OF PLAY." Ill 
 
 j 
 
 , That will find thee tired but not of play ! 
 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
 With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
 And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 Well were it then if thine aching brow 
 Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
 Well for thee, if thy lip could tell 
 A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
 If thine open hand hath relieved distress 
 If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness 
 if thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence 
 If Nature s voices have spoken to thee 
 With her holy meanings eloquently 
 If every creature hath won thy love, 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dove 
 . If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 , Hath plead with thy human heart unheard 
 ! Then when the night steals on, as now, 
 j It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 
 i And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
 i Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother s breast. 
 
112 A CHILD S FIRST 
 
 & *f)Ws first Empression of a Star. 
 
 SHE had been told that God made all the stars 
 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 
 As if it were a new and perfect world, 
 
 And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 
 Half parted with the new and strange delight 
 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 
 That look d so still and delicate above, 
 
 Fill d her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 
 Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 
 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 
 To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 
IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 113 
 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively 
 " Father ! dear father ! God has made a star 1" 
 
114 ON WITNESSING 
 
 a Baptism. 
 
 SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart 
 Resting on God, and held her fair young child 
 U pon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 
 Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 
 To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 
 The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 
 Of the good man glowM fervently with faith 
 That it would be, even as he had pray d, 
 And the sweet child be gather d to the fold 
 Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 
 Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, 
 Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 
 The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
 With the baptismal water. Then I thought 
 That to the eye of GoJ, that mother s tears 
 Would be a deeper covenant which sin 
 And the temptations of the world, and death 
 Would leave unbroken and that she would 
 know 
 
A BAPTISM. 115 
 
 In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 
 The prayer which press d them from her heart had 
 
 been 
 In leading its young spirit up to God. 
 
116 REVERIE AT GLENMARY. 
 
 SiXeberfe at 
 
 I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night 
 Runs over with its fulness of content ; 
 And as I look out on the fragrant stars, 
 And from the beauty of the night take in 
 My priceless portion yet myself no more 
 Than in the universe a grain of sand 
 I feel His glory who could make a world, 
 Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness 
 Leave not a flower unfinish d ! 
 
 Rich, though poor ! 
 
 My low-roof d cottage is this hour a heaven. 
 Music is in it and the song she sings, 
 That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear 
 Of my young child awake upon her knee ; 
 And with his calm eye on his master s face, 
 My noble hound lies couchant and all here- 
 All in this little home, yet boundless heaven- 
 Are, in such love as I have power to give, 
 Blessed to overflowing. 
 
REVERIE AT GLENMARY. 117 
 
 Thou, who look st 
 
 Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
 Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew 
 Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; 
 And, as that flower, from its unseen abode, 
 Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky, 
 Changing its gift to incense, so, oh God ! 
 May the sweet drops that to my humble cup 
 Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee, 
 Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! 
 
118 TO A CITY PIGEON. 
 
 a 
 
 STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove ! 
 Thy daily visits have touch d my love. 
 I watch thy coming, and list the note 
 That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, 
 
 And my joy is high 
 To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 
 
 Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, 
 
 And forsake the wood with its freshen d leaves ? 
 
 Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, 
 
 When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? 
 
 How canst thou bear 
 This noise of people this sultry air 1 
 
 Thou alone of the feather d race 
 
 Dost look unscared on the human face ; 
 
 Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 
 
 Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; 
 
 And the " gentle dove" 
 Has become a name for trust and love. 
 
TO A CITY PIGEON. 119 
 
 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
 
 Thou rt named with childhood s earliest word ! 
 
 Thou rt link d with all that is fresh and wild 
 In the pnson d thoughts of the city child ; 
 
 And thy glossy wings 
 i Are its brightest image of moving things. 
 
 1 It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, 
 Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
 To stir the love for the bright and fail- 
 That else were seal d in this crowded air ; 
 
 I sometimes dream 
 Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 
 
 Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
 The page I read, to my humble eaves, 
 And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, 
 And murmur thy low sweet music out ! 
 
 I hear and see 
 Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! 
 
120 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there, 
 Out and in with the morning air : 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has pass d, 
 And the belfry edge is gain d at last. 
 Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There s a human look in its swelling breast, 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel- 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell 
 Chime of the hour or funeral knell 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 
THE BELFRY PIGEON. 121 
 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight 
 
 moon 
 
 When the sexton cheerly rings for noon 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light- 
 When the child is waked with " nine at night" 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirr d, 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
 Then drops again with filmed eyes, 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 But, unlike me, when day is o er, 
 Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
122 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 JSaturtraj Afternoon. 
 
 \Wriitenfor a Picture.] 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man s heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walk d the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I m old, and " I bide my time :" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 123 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smother d call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
124 THE SABBATH. 
 
 5Ff)e Sabbat*. 
 
 IT was a pleasant morning, in the time 
 
 When the leaves fall and the bright sun shone 
 
 out 
 
 As when the morning stars first sang together 
 So quietly and calmly fell his light 
 Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf 
 In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all 
 Was still. The lab ring herd was grazing 
 Upon the hill-side quietly uncalled 
 By the harsh voice of man ; and distant souna, 
 Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not 
 As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, 
 And then another of the morning, calm 
 And still as Eden ere the birth of man. 
 And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells 
 And the old man, and his descendants, went 
 Together to the house of God. I join d 
 The well-apparell d crowd. The holy man 
 Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith 
 And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven 
 
THE SABBATH. 125 
 
 And the fair maid and the bright-hair d young 
 
 man 
 
 And child of curling locks, just taught to close 
 The lash of its blue eye the while ; all knelt 
 In attitude of prayer and then the hymn, 
 Sincere in its low melody, went up 
 To worship God. 
 
 The white-hair d pastor rose 
 And look d upon his flock and with an eye 
 That told his interest, and voice that spoke 
 In tremulous accents, eloquence like Paul s, 
 He lent Isaiah s fire to the truths 
 Of revelation, and persuasion came 
 Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts 
 Unused to bend were soften d, and the eye 
 Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. 
 
 I went my way but as I went, I thought 
 How holy was the Sabbath-day of God, 
 
DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 SEetiicatfon 
 
 [ Written to be sung at the consecration of Hanover-street 
 Church, Boston.] 
 
 THE perfect world by Adam trod, 
 Was the first temple built by God 
 His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
 And heaved its pillars, one by one. 
 
 He hung its starry roof on high 
 
 The broad illimitable sky ; 
 
 He spread its pavement, green and bright, 
 
 And curtain d it with morning light. 
 
 The mountains in their places stood 
 The sea the sky and " all was good ;" 
 And, when its first pure praises rang, 
 The " morning stars together sang." 
 
 Lord ! tis not ours to make the sea 
 And earth and sky a house for thee ; 
 But in thy sight our oif ring stands 
 A humbler temple, " made with hands."