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For in the rocky strait beneath,

Lay Suliote sire and son:

They had heaped high the piles of death,
Before the pass was won.

"They have crossed the torrent, and on they come;
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!

There, where the hunter laid by his spear,

There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sung thee, fair babe, to sleep,
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep !"

And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,

Till even the upper air was stirred
As cliff and hollow rang.

"Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild?
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,

As if at a glance of thine armed sire?

Still! be thou still! there are brave men low;

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now."

But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swelled the horn,
And further yet the tambour's* peal
Through the dark pass was borne.

"Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth?
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son!
He, too, hath blessed thee, as I have done :
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be;
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!"


And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:

A vail upon the wind was flung,
A cry-and all was o'er!

*Pronounced Tam'-boor




THE Inorning broke, Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were caroling as 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,

Her lips were pressed

To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
She stood at Abraham's tent.
Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out,
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes, as it had been flame.

Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face until he caught

The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.

His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.
He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face; but laid his hand,
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? O no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her cheek the rose, By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how, By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not.

She went her way with a strong step and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form

Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat;
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy

Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,

For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew

Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;

And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,

Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourned:

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy;
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die!

I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazel, among the flowers;
Or wearing rosy 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 watched by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile,
How prayed I that my father's land might be
A heritage for thee!

And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; And oh my last caress

Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.

How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.




THY will be done! how hard a thing to say
When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell,
When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay,
Wander around with dimly conscious ray,
To some familiar face, to bid farewell!

Thy will be done! the falt'ring lips deny
A passage to the tones as yet unheard;
The sob convulsed, the raised and swimming eye
Seem as appealing to their God on high
For power to breathe the yet imperfect word.

Orphan who watchest by the silent tomb,
Where those, who gave thee life, all coldly sleep:
Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home,
Calling to those beloved who cannot come,
And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep!

Widow! who musest over by-gone years
Of life, and love, and happiness with him
Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Who now art left to shed unnoticed tears,

Till thy fair cheek is wan, and eyes grow dim!

Husband! who dreamest of thy gentle wife,
And still in fancy seest her rosy smile
Brightening a world of bitterness and strife;
Who from the lonely future of thy life
Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while!

Mother! whose prayers could not avail to save
Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy!
Who, with a bitter agony, dost rave

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