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She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass’d they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossd the sultry blue
of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart.-And where a fount
Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger’d, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd,
The Earth's One Sanctuary-and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before lier, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of Nature then swell’d high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds

Of weeping and sad song—“Alas,” she cried,
“ Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,

And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-

How shall I hence depart ?
“ Jlow the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing
So late, along the mountains, at my side ?

And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair! “ And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still

Went like a singing rill?

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake. “ And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a vail hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear ? “What have I said, my child ?-Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Shall He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!
“I give thee to thy God—the God that gave thee,
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.
« Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks-
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-Farewell !"


They grew in beauty, side by side ;

They fillid one home with glee;
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded Hower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?
One, midst the forests of the west,

By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd

Above the noble slain:
He wrapp'd his colors round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers-

The last of that bright band.
And parted thus, they rest who play'd

Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent-knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with songs the hearth-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, oh earth!


What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-color'd shells,

Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,

Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies !
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!

Earth claims not these again!
Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rollid

Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,

Man yields them to decay! Yet more! the billows and the depths have more !

High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar-

The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!

Give back the true and brave ! Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,

And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown

But all is not thine own! To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown!

Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!

Restore the dead, thou Sea !


The stranger's heart! oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;-
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land
The voices of thy kindred band-
Oh! midst them all, when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.


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“I hear thee speak of the better land,

Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore ?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs!"

-“Not there, not there, my child!"
• Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?"

_“Not there, not there, my child !”. “Is it far away, in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ?-
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land ?"

-“Not there, not there, my child! “ Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!

Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;

Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ;
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,

-It is there, it is there, my child !”


Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears--but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thon hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ?-
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home;
And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

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