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 hallowed is the hour of morning! meet Ay, beautifully meet-for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncovered. 'T is 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 pencilled messengers,
Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in
The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son!
Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watched their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-haired 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 years were freshly numbered. He stood up, Tall in his vigorous strength; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncovered; and his face, Impressed 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 seemed 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. Everything he met, Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye
Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully,
To see if he had made his father smile.
The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves,
And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside
To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal
A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence.
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,
And buried up his face, and prayed 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 prayed 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 Passed o'er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke, - "Isaac! my only son!" The boy looked up, And Abraham turned his face away, and wept.
Where is the lamb, my father? Oh, the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
How it doth agonize at such an hour! It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and called on God,- And lo! God's angel stayed him,
Upon his face, and wept.
TOO weak, alas! too weak is the temptation
For one whose soul to nobler things aspires Than sensual desires!
Ah, could I, by some sudden aberration, Lead and delude to suicidal death This Christ of Nazareth!
Unto the holy Temple on Moriah,
With its resplendent domes, and manifold
Bright pinnacles of gold,
Where they await thy coming, O Messiah! Lo, I have brought thee! Let thy glory here Be manifest and clear.
Reveal thyself by royal act and gesture, Descending with the bright triumphant host Of all the highermost
Archangels, and about thee as a vesture The shining clouds, and all thy splendors show Unto the world below!
Cast thyself down, it is the hour appointed; And God hath given his angels charge and care To keep thee and upbear
Upon their hands his only Son, the Anointed, Lest he should dash his foot against a stone, And die, and be unknown.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
HE Roman sentinel stood helmed 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
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