Class __E^^124- 
 
 Book ^ 
 
 |84f 
 
NEW-MIRROR— Eitra No. 1. . fl2| 
 
 THE MIRROR LIBRARY, 
 
 THE SACRED POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 F'f1P.'¥ILLIS. 
 
 THE ONLY COMPLETE EDITION EVER PUBLISHED. 
 
 [Extract from the New Mirror of November 11, 1843.] 
 
 goes from us in an Eilra of the Mirror this week, which le»re« us with a feel- 
 -« feeling of timidity and dread— like a parent's apprehensiveness, ^Ting his child 
 Pliny's ''jium tit magnum dare aliquid in moniu hominvm," nor is it what the ha- 
 
 Dea» Reader : A rolume of poems _ 
 
 ing— we scarce know how to phrase it— a feeling of timidity and dread— like a parent's apprehensiveness, giving his child 
 into the hands of a stranger. It is not Pliny's "qium tit magnum dare aliquid i 
 bitual avoidance of grave themes looks like, sometimes— a preference— 
 
 " to tct the serious part of life go hf 
 Like the nejiected tanJ." 
 We are used to buttering curiosity with the ooze A our brains — careful more to be paid than praised — and we have a 
 cellar as well as many sloriea in our giddy thought-house ; and it is from this cave of privacy that we have, with reluc 
 tance, and consenlings far between, drawn treasures of early feeling and impression, now bound and oflered to Tou for 
 the first time in one bundle. Oh, from the different stories of the mind — from the settled depths, and from the efferves- 
 cent and giddy surfaco— how different looks the world !— of what different stuff and worth the link that binds us to it ! 
 In looliing abroad from one window of the soul, we sec sympathy, •goodness, truth, desire for us and our secrets, that we 
 may be more loved : from another, we see suspicion, coldness, mockery, and ill- will — the evil spirits of the world— lying 
 in wait for us. At one moment— lie spirits down, and the heart calm and trusting — we tear out the golden leaf nearest 
 the well of life, and pass it forth to be read and wept over : at another, we bar shutter and blind upon prying malice, 
 turn key carefully on all below, and mounting to the summit, look abroad and jest at the very treasures we have eon- 
 cealed — wondering at our folly in ever confessing to a heartless world that we had secrets, and would share them. We 
 are not always alike. The world does not seem always the same. We believe it is all good sometimes. We believe, 
 sometime% that it is but a place accursed— given to devils and their human scholars. Sometimes we arc all kindness — 
 sometimes aching only for an antagonist, and an arena without barrier or law. And oh, what a Procrustes's bed is hu- 
 man opinion — trying a man's actions and words, in whatever mood committed and said, by the tame standard of rigor ! 
 How often must the angels hovering over us reverse the sentence of the judge— how oftcner still the rebuke of the old 
 maid and the pharisee. But— a martingale on moralizing ! 
 
 Yours, affectionately, Doubuctou. 
 
 P. S.— These poems, dear reader (if you are one of those who— 
 
 " can not ipare the luxury of bcltevin^ 
 Thit all things beautiful arc what Ihejr seem,")— 
 i these poems, we may venture to say to you, are chickens of ours that still come home to roost. They have not been 
 turned out to come back to a locked door and a strange face at the postern. We still put such eggs under our hen of 
 revcry. We cherish the breed— but privately— privately ! Take tliese, and come to us lor more. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 MORRIb, WILLIS, & CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 NO. 4 ANN-STREET. 
 1844. 
 
 EirrsRED, according 
 
 of Congress, in the year 1843, by Morris, Wilus, ft Co., in the Clerk's office of the 
 District Court of the Southern District of New York. 
 
i^ 
 

 (EXTRA.) 
 
 
 SACEED POEMS 
 
 lY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The author puts these poems to press with the knowledge that they should all be re-written, 
 and with a painful regret that he has no leisure to re-write them before extending their publicity in 
 a new re-print. The subjects of the poems, and the feelings expressed in them, have given them a 
 popularity independent of criticism, and to that tide he again commits them — to flow as far as they 
 will. He rests his hope of reputation on having the leisure to overtake and pass them at some 
 future day. 
 
 The separate publication of the poems on serious subjects is in obedience to frequent suggestion. 
 The other poems and plays by the author will be printed in a shape uniform with this, in succeeding 
 numbers, — giving purchasers the choice of binding them together or separate. 
 
 THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 
 
 Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve 
 Stole through the lattice, and the dyiiij' i;irl 
 Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
 Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 
 Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand 
 Of the heart-broken Ruler, and lier breast. 
 Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
 The shadow of a leal' lay on her lips, 
 And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, 
 The dark lids lifted from her languiif eyes. 
 And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
 She turned 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 sigli 
 Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name. 
 She gently drew his hand upon her lips. 
 And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk 
 Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
 Of the rich curtains buried up his face; 
 And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
 StiiT'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. • • • • • 
 
 * • * It was night — 
 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, 
 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 gfcoulders fell. 
 As he lean'd forward earnestly. Mid 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 
 Jairvs 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 aiaw a glistening tear 
 Steal to his silver beard j and, drawing nigh 
 Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem 
 Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
 Pre.-is'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low, 
 " Master.' my daughter."' — •••••« 
 
 *'***• The 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.'" 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 In hiving utterance all broke with tears, 
 
 Spolce as his heart would speak if he were there, 
 
 And fdl'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 Bathsheba 
 Held the unmoving child upon her knees. 
 The curtains were let down, and all came forth. 
 And, gathering with fearful look.s apart, 
 Whisper'd together. 
 
 And the king arose 
 And gazed on them a moment, and with voice 
 Of quick, uncertain utterani>e, he ask'd, 
 " Is the child dead.'" They answer'd, " he is dead." 
 But when they look'd to see Ivim 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 annointed, forth, and to the house 
 Of God went up to prav. .'Vnd he return'd. 
 And they set bread before him, and he ate — 
 And when they marvell'd, he said," Wherefore mourn') 
 The child is dead, and I shntl go to him — 
 Sut he will not return to me." 
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF AI 
 
 iHAM. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Av, beautifuUv meet — fur the pure prayer. 
 
 The patriarch" standeth u; 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 seemeth 
 
 To be forgetful of his vigorous frame. 
 
 And boweth to his staff as at the hour 
 
 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 simny 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 .' 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 vears were freshly number'd. He .itood 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 
 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 of beautiful, the lightest wing 
 Of bird or insect, or the palest dye 
 Of the fresh f!owers, won him from his path; 
 And joyously broke forth his tiny shout. 
 As he liung back his silken hair, and sprung 
 Away to some gieen 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 Siyrian wells. 
 
 Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness 
 
 Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 
 
 To toss his sunny hair trom 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. 
 
 And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself. 
 
 And buried up his face, and pra/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. 
 
 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 tiirn'd his face away, and wept. 
 
 " Where is the lamb, my father?" — Oh the tones 
 
 The sweet, the thrilling' music of a child I— 
 
 How it doth agonize at such an hour ! — 
 
 It was the last'3eep 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 staid him— and he fell 
 
 Upon his face, and wept. 
 
 THE SHUNAMITE. 
 It was a sultry day of summer time. 
 The sun poiir'd down upon the ripcn'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. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd 
 
 As il" the air had fainted, and the pulse 
 
 Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat 
 
 " Haslc thee, my child !" the Syrian mother said, 
 
 " Thy father is athirst"— and, from the depths 
 
 Of tlie 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 hand.^ press'd closely to the cool 
 
 Stone vessel, and his liltlc naked feet 
 
 Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills, 
 
 And through the light green hollows where the lambs 
 
 Go for the tender gra.->s, he kept his way. 
 
 Wiling its distance with his simple Ihoushts, 
 
 Till, m the wilderness of sheaves, with brows 
 
 Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. 
 
 Childhood is restless ever, and the boy 
 Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree. 
 But with a joyous industry went forth 
 Into the reaper's places, and bound up 
 His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
 The pliant withs out of the shining straw — 
 Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
 The heat and weariness of their stooping toil 
 In the beguiling of his playful mirth. 
 Presently he was silent, and his eye 
 Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand 
 Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast 
 Heaving with the suppression of a cry. 
 He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back 
 Upon the looseii'd sheaf, insensible. 
 
 They bore him to his mother, and he lay 
 Upon her knees till noon — and then he dieil ! 
 She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand 
 Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon 
 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 wa.' 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 soti sleep! How beautiful he lies. 
 With his fair forehead, and the ros» veins 
 Plaving so freshly in his sunny check ! 
 How could they say that he would die ! Oh God '. 
 I could not lose him ! I have treasured all 
 His childhood in mv 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 ! 
 1 could believe that in that bosom now 
 There were no pulse — it boats so languidly ! 
 I cannot see it stir; but his red lip! 
 Death would not be so very beautiful ! 
 And that half smile— would death have left Mat there .' 
 
 -."Vnd should I not have felt that he would die.> 
 And have I not wept over him .' — and pray'd 
 Mornina and night for him? And coulii he die.' 
 No — God will keep him ! He will be my pride 
 Many long years to cnme, 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 !" 
 Arid the fond mother lifted his soft curls. 
 And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think 
 That such fait 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 hi.s — 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 
 Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still — 
 Motionless on her knee — The truth would come I 
 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 v,-ay. 
 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 ! 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 
 She stood before her father's gorjeous tent. 
 To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
 Wa<s reslin? on her shoulders, like a cloud 
 Floating around a statue, and the wind. 
 Just swaviTiir lur light robe, revcal'd a shape 
 PraxiteK'S might worship. She had clasp'd 
 Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised 
 Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, 
 Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. 
 Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft 
 Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck. 
 Just where the cheek was melting to its curve 
 With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, 
 Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, 
 lis 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 hut a lovely wave of light. 
 To meet the arching of her queenly neck. 
 Her countenance was radiant with love. 
 She look'd like one to die for it — a being 
 Whose wimie 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 ten(lcrne.ss to her ! 
 But the affection of a delicate child 
 For a fond father, ^shing, as it docs. 
 With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on. 
 Through all earth's changes, like a river's course- 
 Chasfcn'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 mishty hosts 
 Returning from the battle, pour'd from far. 
 Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 
 Tliev 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 — 
 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. 
 Anil 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 liis mail. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 The struggle of his feelings with his pri< 
 He gazed intensely forward. The tall fir 
 
 Whose shekels none in Israel might bear. 
 Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 
 His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look 
 Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, 
 Might quell the "lion. He led on; but thoughts 
 Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins 
 Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, 
 And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. 
 He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye 
 Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill 
 He dared not meet, were there. His home was near ; 
 And men were thronging, with that strange delight 
 I'hey have in human passions, to observe 
 
 ride. 
 
 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 balsain, 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 answe^d not. 
 She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth .' 
 There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. 
 Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm. 
 And laid her white hand gently on his brow. 
 And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. 
 The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands. 
 And spoke the name of God, in agony. 
 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 pallid man 
 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. 
 
 ABSALOM. 
 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 tlie sleoiier'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, 
 ^Vhose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse. 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. 
 And l^an'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suflfering. 
 That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood. 
 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 
 Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 
 The mourner's covering, and he had 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— when 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 controll'd. 
 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there. 
 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds 
 Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd 
 The matcliless 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^o 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 laving 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: 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should'st 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 1 
 " But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
 
 Of music, and the voices of the young; 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. 
 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken. 
 How wilt its love for thee, as I depart. 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 •■ And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; — 
 
 And thy dark sin I— 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 strenjth were given him of God, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and deceii'ly — and left him there — 
 As if bis rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 CHRISTS ENTRANCE INTO JERU6.M.EM. 
 
 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 itj 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 bratiches 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 gra.<s had gone 
 
 As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods 
 
 Threw their cool shadow^s freshly to the west. 
 
 And the light foal, with quick and toiling step. 
 
 And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way 
 
 Till its soft mane was lilted by the wind 
 
 Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd 
 
 The summit's breezy pilch, the Saviour raised 
 
 His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem ! 
 
 Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
 
 His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line 
 
 Than the wont sli^htncss of his perfect limbs 
 
 Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. 
 
 There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — 
 
 The silver sun on all her palaces. 
 
 And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires 
 
 Tending their turrace flowers, and Kedron's stream 
 
 Lacing the meadows with its silver band. 
 
 And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 
 
 With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — 
 
 Jerusalem — the city of his love. 
 
 Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem — 
 
 That knew him not — and had rejected him; 
 
 Jerusalem — for whom he came to die ! 
 
 The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips 
 
 At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang 
 
 Louder Hosannas; the clear air was fiU'd 
 
 With odor from the trampled olive-leaves — 
 
 Bnt " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw 
 
 His Master's tears, and closer to his side 
 
 He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 
 
 The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness. 
 
 And mourn'd — " How oft, Jerusalem ! would I 
 
 Have gather'd you. as gatheretli a hen 
 
 Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not !" 
 
 He thought not of the death thnt he should die — 
 
 He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce 
 
 His forehead— of the buflct on the cheek — 
 
 The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! — 
 
 Gelhsemane 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 pa.=!s." .\nd 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 faintiiess 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 ! 
 
 He only felt that for her sake his life 
 
 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 .' 
 
 BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 
 It was a green spot in the wilderness, 
 Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine 
 Never had dropp'd its la-ssels 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. Softlv in 
 
 And, hushing as thev spread into the light. 
 
 Circled the edges ofthe pebbled tank 
 
 Slowly, then rippK'd through the woods away. 
 
 Hither had come th' .Apostle of the wild. 
 
 Winding the river's course. 'T»~as near the flush 
 
 Of eve, and. with a multitude around. 
 
 Who from the citii'sjiad come out to hear. 
 
 He stood hreast-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. 
 
 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 Ican'd to him, and persuasion swift 
 
 To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. 
 
 Silent upon the green and sloping bank 
 
 The people sal, and while the leaves were shook 
 
 With the birds dropping early to their nests. 
 
 And the gray eve came on, within their herirts 
 
 They mused' if he were Christ. The rippling strean. 
 
 Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast 
 
 As he divined their thought. " I but baplize,'' 
 
 He said, " with water; but there cometh One, 
 
 The latchet of whos« 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 hiins alone 
 
 Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs. 
 
 In their angelic slightness, rrieek and bare. 
 
 He waited to go in. But John forbade. 
 
 And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there. 
 
 And said, " Nay, Master! I have need o{ IMne, 
 
 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 fultil 
 
 All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream. 
 
 He took around him the Apostle's arm. 
 
 And drew him gently to the midst. The wocd 
 
 Was thick with the dim twilight as they came 
 
 Up from the water. With his clasped hands 
 
 Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently 
 
 FoUow'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 thera, and from the heavens away 
 
 Parted the dim blue ether like a veil; 
 
 And as a voice, fearful exceedingly, 
 
 Broke from the midst, " This is my MtrcB loved Srr 
 
 I» WHOM I AM WELI, PLEASED," a SHOW-white dovt 
 
 Floating upon its wings, descended through ; 
 And shedding a swift music from its plurncs. 
 Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. 
 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 
 Wan 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 
 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 lighl 
 Which led him on till now was sorely dim. 
 He breathed a new submission — "Not my will. 
 But thine be done, oh Father !" As he spoke. 
 Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole 
 Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky 
 As if the stars were swept like instruments. 
 No cloud was visible, but radiant wings 
 Were coming with a silvery rush to earth. 
 And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one. 
 With an illumined forehead, and the light 
 Whose fountain is the mystery of God, 
 Eiicalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him, 
 And nerv'd him with a mini.stry of strength. 
 It was enough — and with his godlike brow 
 Re-written of his Father's messenger. 
 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." 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 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. 
 
 The dull, low i 
 
 Went through the city-^the sad sound of feet 
 
 Unmix'd with voices— and the sentinel 
 
 Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
 
 Up the wide streets alona; whose paved way 
 
 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 soear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd. 
 
 Bending beneath their burden. Tliere was one — 
 
 Only one mourner. Close behind the bier. 
 
 Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, 
 
 FoUow'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 drew near to Nain as from the gate 
 
 The funeral came forth. His lips were pale 
 
 With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat 
 
 Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn 
 
 And simple latchets of his sandals lay. 
 
 Thick, tl\f white dust of travel. He had come 
 
 Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
 
 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 til) eve ; 
 
 And on the alders of Bethulia's plains 
 
 The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild ; 
 
 Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on. 
 
 From every swelling mount he saw afar. 
 
 Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, 
 
 The place of his next errand ; and the path 
 
 Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away 
 
 Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. 
 
 Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd 
 
 Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near 
 
 The place of burial, and, with straining hands. 
 
 Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, 
 
 And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's. 
 
 And an inquiring wildness flashing through 
 
 The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes. 
 
 She came where Jesus stood beside the way. 
 
 He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. 
 
 " Weep not !" he said; and as they stay'd the bier. 
 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet. 
 
 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. 
 
 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
 Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves. 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers. 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew. 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Us 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 Hagai-. The moist earth 
 Was ]iouring 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'tl 
 Till the blood started; and the w.indering veins 
 Of her transparent forehead v\ere swell'd out. 
 As if her pride would bur.st them. Her dark eye 
 Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven. 
 Which made its language legible," shot back. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
 
 Her nohlc 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 bowm, 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 beiids the patriarch as he cometh now 
 Upon his sBfi" so wearily ? His beard 
 Is low upon his breast, and his high brow. 
 So wTitten 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, thousch the morn 
 Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
 Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 
 Oh ! man may bear with suflering : his heart 
 Is a strong thing, and godlike, in the grasp 
 Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear 
 One chord aflcction 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 broad. 
 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 lelt her to her lot of loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep.' May slighted woman turn. 
 And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
 liend lighllv to her leaning trust again ? 
 O no! by all her loveliness— by all 
 That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
 Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
 By needless jealousies; let the last star 
 Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
 Wrong her by petulance, 8u.?picion, all 
 That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give 
 One evidence of love, and earth lias not 
 An emblem of devotednoss 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 i.4 not a feeling out of heaven 
 Her pride o'ermastercth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step and .slow — 
 Her press'd lip arcli'd, and her clear eye midimm'd. 
 As if it were a diamond, and her form 
 Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd 
 His hand till it was pain'd; for he had caught. 
 As I have said, her spirit, and the seed 
 Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 
 
 The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear lioiven, and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade. 
 And the bri;ht plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of re^t 1 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 fried to comfort him ; 
 But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
 Were dim and blood-shot, 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. 
 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 liim, she mourn'd :— 
 
 " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
 I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook 
 
 Upon thy brow to look, 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 
 And could I see thee die t 
 " 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. 
 Anil saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream. 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
 How pray'd I that my father's land might be 
 
 An heritage for thee ! 
 " .\nd 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 
 1^ 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. 
 
 RIZPAH WITH HER SON.S, 
 (Tlie day be/are thty litre hanged on Gibeah.) 
 " Bread for my mother I" said the voice of one 
 Darkening the door of Kizpah. She look'd up — 
 And lo ! the princely countenance and mien 
 Of dark-hrow'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 stoop'd 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 fears. 
 " Whence comest thou .'" said Rizpah. 
 
 " From the house 
 Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — 
 I'his in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I .said, 
 ' ^ A-ing's Sim tahea it for hit hungry mother!' 
 God stav 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 Mepliibosheth. 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 scai-let 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, 
 Mephibusheth had been too fair for man. 
 As if he were a vision that would fade, 
 Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye. 
 Grew his bright form familiar; but, like stars. 
 That seem'd each nighl new lit in a new heaven. 
 He was each morn's sweet gift to her. .She loved 
 Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child. 
 Tenderly, fondly. But for him— the last— 
 
THE NEW MIRROR, 
 
 What had she done for heaven to he his mother! 
 Her heart roae in her throat to hear liis voice; 
 She hiok'd at him forever through her tears; 
 Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, 
 As if llie li_'lileit tliousht of him had lain 
 
 In -.w I ii li i;n I ■ Mvern of her soul. 
 
 'I'll, I 1 , j'li \v;ls part of him, to her — 
 
 Will'' I'M-, hut to show his heauly? 
 
 Th.- li ! '' '' 111: i-'ired time till he should come; 
 
 Too tar.ly sung the bird when he was gone: 
 
 She would have shut the flow'rs— and call'd the star 
 
 Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun 
 
 Pause at Eve's golden door — to wait for him ! 
 
 AVas this a heart gone wild ? — or is the love 
 
 Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this 
 
 Is many a poor one in her humble home, , 
 
 Who silently and sweetly sits alone. 
 
 Pouring her life all out upon her child. 
 
 What cares she that he does not feel how close 
 
 Her heart beats after his— that all unseen 
 
 Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day. 
 
 And watch his sleep like angels .' And, when moved 
 
 By some sore needed Providence, he stops 
 
 In his wild path and lift5 a thou£;ht to heaven, 
 
 What cares the mother that he does not see ^_ 
 
 The link between the blessing and her prayer! ^P 
 
 He who once wept with Mary — anjels 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. 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 lamp.s of love, and tell me, now, 
 How many canst thou re-light at the stars 
 And blush not at their burnin;? One — one only — 
 Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time. 
 And fed with faithful fondness to your eraye — 
 (Tho' sometimes with a hand s'tretch'd back from 
 
 heaven,) 
 Steadfast thro' all things — near, when most forgot — 
 And with its finger 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. 
 
 The hand in salutation gently raised 
 To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, 
 Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said, 
 " My Lvbian 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 mother's, with their starving babes, 
 At everv threshold ; and wild, desperate men 
 Prowl, with the eves of tigers, up and down. 
 Watching to rob those who, from house to house. 
 Beg for the dving. Fear not thou, mv mother! 
 Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee ! " 
 [unfinished.] 
 
 LAZARUS AND MARY. 
 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 coimtenance whereon the Saviour dwelt 
 With his benignant smile — the soft fair lines 
 
 Breatliing 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. 
 
 Was veiling before God its timid fire, 
 
 New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — 
 
 That Lazarus, her brother, wa.s 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 tliat bright hair 
 
 That wiped the feet of Jesus — the faindands 
 
 Clasp d in her breathless wonder while He taught— 
 
 Scarce U> 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 unbleinish'd beauty, as became 
 
 An office hv archangels fill'd till now. 
 
 She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; 
 
 And while, to the .Apostles' eyes, it seem'd 
 
 She but fnlfiU'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 lov'd one in all his comeliness — 
 
 And w'th 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 bv the Judean maids 
 
 Prais'd for its nalm-like stature, as he walk'd 
 
 With her by Kedron in the eventide — 
 
 The dead was Lazarus !»•»•♦ 
 
 The l)urial was over, and the night 
 
 Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon. 
 
 And comforters and mourners went their way- 
 
 Bnt death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone. 
 
 When Lazarus had foUow'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 lov'd 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 w-as a fearful and unbreathing hush. 
 
 Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary 
 
 The shadows all have known, who, from their hearts. 
 
 Have released friends to heaven. The parting soul 
 
 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 tlie 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, 
 " Thv 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 holv feet, came Lazarus 
 To hind his sandals oii, and follow forth 
 AV'illi dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair — 
 Intent upon the Master's need alone. - 
 Indissolubly link'd were they ! And now. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 To go to meet him — Lazarus not there — 
 And to his greeting answer " It is well I" 
 And without tears, (since grief would trouble Him 
 Whose soul waj alway 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 re<lecm'd a world could bleed I 
 And as she came, with that uncertain.step, — 
 Eager, yet weak, — her hands upon her breast, — 
 And they who foUow-d her all fallen back 
 To leave her with her sacred grief alone, — 
 The heart of Christ \vas troubled. She drew near. 
 And the disciples rose up from the fount. 
 Moved by her look of wo, and gather'd round ; 
 And Mary — for a moment — ere she look'd 
 Upon the .Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet, — 
 And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew 
 Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; 
 Then, with a vain strife to control her tears. 
 She stagger'd to their midst, and at His feet 
 Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst thou been here. 
 My brother had not died !" The Saviour groan'd 
 In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised 
 The mourner from the ground, and in a voice. 
 Broke in its utterance like her own. He said, 
 " \Vhere have ye laid him ?" Then the Jews who came. 
 Following Mary, answer'd through their tears, 
 " Lord : come and see !" But lo I 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 — overflow'd, 
 Touch'd by a mourner's sorrow ! Jesus wept. 
 Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding 
 Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother. 
 Stood Mary there ; but that lost burden now 
 Lay on His heart who pitied her; and Christ, 
 Following slow, and groaning in Himself, 
 Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave. 
 And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, 
 " Take ye away the stone !" Then lifted He 
 His moisten'd eyes to heaven, and while the Jews 
 And the disciples bent their heads in awe. 
 And trembling Mary sank upon her knees. 
 The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased. 
 And for a minute's space there was a hush. 
 As if th' angelic watchers of the world 
 Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things. 
 To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ 
 Shone as He stood, and over Him there came 
 Command, as 'twere the living face of God, 
 And with a loud voice. He cried, '■ Lazarus! 
 Come forth !" And instantly, bound hand and foot. 
 And borne by unseen angels from the cave, 
 He that was dead stood with them. At the word 
 Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed 
 The bands from off the foldings of his shroud; 
 And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside, 
 Ran to him swiftly, and cried, " Lazarus ! 
 My brother, Lazarus !" and tore away 
 The napkin she had bound about his head — 
 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. 
 
 Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven! 
 Ye look'd not fur her yet with your soft eyes, 
 
 watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
 But lo ! while you delay to let her forth. 
 Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
 From 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 
 Held as a welcome to her. AVeep ! oh mother ! 
 But not that from this cup of bitterness 
 
 A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 
 
 One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
 My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
 My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 
 
 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 
 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 aflection 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 litUe it would seem like death 
 
 To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook. 
 
 Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
 
 That lead op 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 : 
 
 The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers. 
 
 And far below, seen under arching leaves. 
 
 Glitters the warm sun on the village spire. 
 
 Pointing the living after thee. And this 
 
 Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now 
 
 The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
 
 To whisper the same peace to her 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 forever — 
 
 Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
 
 Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
 
 Wakens the buds above thee, we will come. 
 
 And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
 
 Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 
 
 A child that we have loved is gone lo heaven, 
 
 And by this gate of flowers she pass'd away! 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE 
 
 Leave us not, man of prayer ! Like Paul, hast thou 
 " Serv'd God with all humility of mind," 
 Dwelling among us, and '! with many tears," 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 " From house to house," " by night and day n 
 
 ceasing," 
 Hast pleaded thv 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 
 Followed thy loved call upward — and so knit 
 Is all our worship with those outspread hands. 
 And the implorinp; voice, which, well we knew. 
 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 atTrighted, 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 nol 
 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. 
 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 bereav'd and stricken. 
 When the dark c-loud, wherein tlion found'st a spot 
 Broke bv thp li-lit ..f n.-v.-v, l..vv..r.! airiiin- 
 Sythesn.l >.: '■- ,!• ..'. ., i^i I., i .-hild. 
 In murninr^ - — 
 
 By all thou ,, :r..l. :.\ . i., . . .il.-hell 
 
 Brings us to^cllnr. mA lliu rlu-.in^ li)inn 
 Hushes our hearts to piay, and thy luvcd voice, 
 That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 
 'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not 
 Upon our listening ears— remember'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. 
 " The heart that we have Iain near before our birth, isthoonly oni 
 at cannot forget that it has loved us."— Philii' Slino.bit. 
 My birth-dav !— 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. 
 
 I weep— albeit here alone — 
 As if I hung upon thy neck. 
 
 As if thv lips vvere on my own. 
 As if this full sad heart of mine, 
 W.-re beating closely upon thine. 
 
 Four weary years ! How looks she now ? 
 
 What light is in those tender eyes .' 
 What trace of time hath 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 
 Wlin sleeps upon her heart alway — 
 
 Whose name upon lier 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 weeps these tears — to think of her! 
 
 I know not if my mother's jiyes 
 
 Would find me changed m 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 lov'd it first — 
 
 The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. 
 
 Dear mother! dost thou love me yet .' 
 
 Am 1 remember'd in my home ? 
 When those I love for joy are met. 
 
 Does some one wish that I would come ? 
 Thou dost — 1 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 count-s 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 wanderer yet ? 
 
 Oh ! when the hour to meet again 
 
 Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
 Mv heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, 
 
 'And. link hv link, draws nearer thee— 
 \\)„ ■ ■ "', ,ind, from the shore, 
 
 ( ,r,l breath of home, 
 
 A', ii , !iiV mother's door 
 
 ,,: ^ I. M when I come- 
 
 When piit IS !;;iiii d, and, slowly now. 
 
 The old familiar paths are pass'd. 
 And, entering — unconscious how — 
 
 I gaze upon thy face at last. 
 And nm to thee, all faint and weak. 
 And feci thy tears upon my cheek — 
 
 Oh ! if mv 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 orice that we have dried our tears. 
 
 How will the days seem long and bright — 
 To meet thee always with the morn. 
 
 And hear thv lilessing every night — 
 Thv " deaiest," thy " first-born ! "— 
 And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn . 
 
 TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APPENINES 
 
 M . : . ■ Mr :■ rlins« nurst 
 
 Haw the slwrttn'd chain brings mentarertntt .■ 
 
 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — 
 'I'he KasI is fleck'd with cloudy bars. 
 
 And, u'lidini throus;h them one by one, 
 'Ph.' irioon walks' up her path of stars- 
 
 The li'.;lit upon her placid brow 
 
 ; unseen now. 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 13 
 
 And happiness is mine to-night, 
 
 Thus springing from an unseen fount ; 
 And breast and brain are warm with light. 
 
 With midnight round mc on the mount- 
 Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow 
 From far that 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 mc! 
 Though wandering, as this moon above, 
 I'm dark without thy constant love. 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 Bright flag at yonder tapering mast ! 
 
 Fling out your field of azure blue; 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
 
 And point a.s 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 tliousand keels. 
 
 She leaps to the careering seas ! 
 Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail. 
 
 In whose white breast 1 seem to lie. 
 How on, 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 I 
 Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld! 
 
 1 turn to watch our foamy track. 
 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 I — 
 
 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' enamored 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 for ever; 
 
 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 — 
 Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget ! 
 Adieu, oh fatherland 1 I see 
 
 Your white clifis 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 flowed 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 w ith me ! 
 
 The spider knows the roof unriven, 
 
 While swings his web, though lightnings blaze — 
 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 sec — 
 When I can gaze upon thy cheek. 
 
 And thou, with thv dear eyes, on me — 
 'Twill be a pastime little siid' 
 
 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 thought3 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 — 
 
 Watered 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 languigh more than flowers ! 
 She was their light — their very air — 
 
 Room, mother! in thy heart! place for her in thy 
 prayer ! 
 
 A TRUE INCIDENT. 
 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 vi'here 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 troU'd her lullaby, and still. 
 Blest through her depths of soul by light there shining. 
 The mother in her reverie mused on. 
 But lo ! another traveller alighted ! 
 And now, no more indifl'erent or calm. 
 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 thought; 
 And by the rapt expression of the lips. 
 They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn ; 
 And over all its countenance there breath'd 
 Benignity, majestic as we dream 
 Angels wear ever, before God. With gaze 
 Hirnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm 
 With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child; 
 And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd 
 Close to an angel, went upon his way. 
 
 Soon after, to tlie broken choir in heaven 
 This cherub was recalled, and now the mother 
 Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard — 
 (Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart 
 Familiar to the world,)— and wrote to tell him. 
 The angel he had recognized that morn, 
 Had fled to bliss again. The poet well 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 Remember'd that child's ministry to him; 
 And of the only fountain that he knew 
 F'or healinjT, he sought comfort for the mother. 
 And thus he wrote :— 
 
 Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven, 
 
 Ere stain on its purity fell .' 
 To thy questioning heart, lo! an answer from 
 heaven: 
 
 " Is IT WELI. WrrH THK CHII.D .'" " It IS WELL !" 
 
 THE MOTHErTtoIjER CHILD. 
 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 flights scarce o'er — 
 That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
 Steeped in the blue of its remembered 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 clierub 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, 
 Looked 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 I 
 Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
 The rlo.-!ed eyes look upon Thy fare 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 ! 
 
 THIRTY-FIVE. 
 
 •* The )'ears 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 .' 
 
 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 ! 
 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, 
 1 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 1 what those sweet voices say ! 
 The better land's in sight. 
 And, by its chastening light, 
 Jill love from life's midway is driven 
 we he^'s whose claspedhandwillbring thee onto Heaven! 
 
 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 
 I 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 for ever. 
 
 I have wept 
 With gladnei!s at the gift of this fair child ! 
 My life is bound up in her. But, oh God 1 
 Thou knowcst 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. 
 Take thou ils love, I pray thee ! Give it light — 
 Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — 
 But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
 Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
 And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! 
 
 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, 
 Waitin_' 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 cele.stial dawn, and praising Him 
 Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. 
 I would I had an angel's ear to list 
 That melody. I would that I might float 
 Up in that Ijoundless element, and feel 
 Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse 
 Beating in Heaven ! My spirit is athirst 
 For music — rarer music ! I would bathe 
 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, 
 Grasped at the tesselated squares inwTought 
 With metals curiously. Her childhood passed 
 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 < 
 Her youth— oh ! that was qui ' 
 A dream of poetry that may : 
 Written or told — exceeding beautiful ! 
 And so came worshippers; and rank bowed down 
 And breathed upon her heart strings with the breai 
 Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously 
 With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step 
 A majesty as if she trod tfie 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 
 Turned her high heart away ! She had a mind. 
 Deep, and immortal, and it would not feed 
 On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
 
THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 of a serener element, and drank 
 Pliclosophv, and for a little while 
 She was allayed,— till, presently, it turned 
 Bitter witliin her, and her spirit grew 
 Kaint for undving waters. Then she came 
 To the pure (ovint of God, and is athirst 
 No more— save when the fever of the world 
 Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, 
 Out in the star-light quietness, and breathe 
 A holy aspiration after Heaven. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 
 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 armour 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. Everything 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 strects,aiid nothing look'd 
 Like woe or suffering, 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. 
 And everything, 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 muttered by some haughty Turk whose sleeve 
 Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall. 
 And Israel too passed on — the trampUd Jew 1 
 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 anything to her. 
 Oh that they would be galher'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 stcadlaslly upon his grave. 
 Were not his kindred; but they found him there, 
 And lov'd him for his ministry of Christ. 
 He had died young. But there are silver'd heads, 
 Whose race of duty is less nobly rin. 
 His heart was with Jerusalem; and strong 
 As was a mother's love, and the svi'cet ties 
 Religion makes so beautiful at home. 
 He llung them from him in his ea^er 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 armour on! — 
 What is the hero's clarion, tho' its blast 
 Ring with the mastery of a world, to this? — 
 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 ? 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD TIRED OF PLAY.' 
 Tired of play ! Tired of play ! 
 What nast thou done this livelong day .' 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee; 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; 
 The doves have flown to the slieltering eaves. 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
 How hast thou spent it — restless one ! 
 Playing? But what hast thou done beside 
 Toteli thy mother at even tide .' 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ! 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou learned by field and hill. 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ! 
 There w ill come an eve to a longer day. 
 That will 4pd 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 reliev'd 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 their 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. 
 It will brinp relief to thine aching brow. 
 And, with joy and peace, at the thought of rest, 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION 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 slie could not comprehend. 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That looked so still and delicate above. 
 Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stoo<l 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 
 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 !" 
 
 ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 
 She stood up in the meekness of a heart 
 Resting on God, and held her fair young child 
 Upon 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 glowed 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 
 
16 
 
 THE NEW MIRROR. 
 
 Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears, 
 
 Sfi>le from beneath hor lashes, and upon 
 
 The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
 
 With the baptismal water. Then I though" 
 
 That, to the eye of God, 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 
 
 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. 
 
 REVERY AT GLENMARY. 
 I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night 
 Runs over with its fulness of content ; 
 And a3 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-rooPd cottage is this hour a heaven. 
 Music is in it— and the song she sings. 
 That sweet-voic'd wife of mine, arrests the ear 
 Of my young child awake upon her knee ; ' 
 And, vvith His calm eyes 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. 
 
 Thou, who look'st 
 Upon mv 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 hunible cup 
 Find their far way from heaven, send up to Thee 
 Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! 
 
 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 vvatch him as he springs. 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed. 
 And the belfry edge is gained 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. 
 When the tongue swinf;3 out to the midnight mo( 
 When the sexton cheerily 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 unstirred. 
 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 rne, 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. 
 
 I would that in such wings of gold 
 I could my weary heart upfold; 
 And while the world throngs on beneath. 
 Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
 And only sad with others' sadness, 
 And only glad with others' gladness. 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
 And, lapt in quiet, bide my time. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 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 — uncall'd 
 By the harsh voice of man, and distant sound. 
 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 ioin'd 
 The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man 
 Rose solemnly, and breath'd the prayer of faith — 
 And the gray saint, juat on the wing for heaven— 
 And till' lair ni;iul—;iiid the bright-haired young man- 
 And cliilil nf niiliiiL' hjcks, just taught to close 
 The liL.li .il IN lilnr , ve the while;— all knelt 
 In altihidi- "I' pi.iMi— and then the hymn. 
 Sincere in its low melody, went up 
 To worship God. 
 
 The white-haired 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 pcrsua.sion came 
 Like gushing waters from his lips, till heSrts 
 Unus'd to bend were soften'd, and the eye 
 Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. 
 I went mv way — but as I went, I thought 
 How holy was the Sabbath-day of God. 
 
 DEDICATION HYMN. 
 
 to he sunz at the consecration of Hanorer'strcet C 
 
 Boston ] 
 Thk perfect world by Adam trod. 
 Was the first temple— built by God— 
 His fiat laid the corner stone. 
 And heav'd its pillars, one by one 
 
 He hung its starrv 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 staij together sang." 
 
 Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
 And earth and sky a house for thee; 
 But in thy sight our ofTring stands — 
 A humbler temple, " made with hands " 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRtSS 
 111 III III III II II I III II I II 
 
 015 988 242 1