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 past, and Asia's sun rose 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 farther 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 gazelle, 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
An heritage for thee!

66 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.

"THE HEARTH," AN UNFINISHED POEM.

[EXTRACT.]

WILSON.

AND lo! an infant shows his gladsome face!
His beautiful and shining golden head

Lies on his mother's bosom like a rose
Fallen on a lilied bank. A dewy light
Meets the soft smiling of his upward eye,
As in the playful restlessness of joy
He clings around her neck, and fondly strives
To reach the kisses mantling from her soul.
-And now the baby in his cradle sleeps,

Hushed by his mother's prayer! How soft her tread
Falls, like a snowflake, on the noiseless floor!

H

THE THREE SONS.

MOULTRIE.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five

years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of

gentle mould.

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways

appears,

That my child is grave, and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is

fair,

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air :

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth

me,

But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fer

vency:

But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per

plext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth

him to pray,

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.

Oh, should my child be spared to manhood's years

like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will

be:

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose

him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features

be,