Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued- Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
"Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois paths, and through the forests go; And tell in burning words, thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. God shall be with thee, my beloved!-Away! Bless but thy child, and leave me:-I can pray!"
He sprang up like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair, And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, "That man for thee should gird himself to die.
"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child! Now shall thy name be armour to my heart; And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
Be taught of thee to choose the better part! I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell, Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps:-Farewell!"
And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,
In the clear starlight: he, the strength to rouse Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake, To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep, With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.
SONG OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love! Mine still to be!
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, My thoughts of thee.
Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears, Our mingled prayer,
Our suffering love, through long devoted years, Went with me there.
It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried- It was not vain!
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, I watch again.
From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, I am not gone;
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, Thou art not lone:
Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest, That stream, whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, We two have known:
Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, Silent and fast:
Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are burning O'er night's expanse.
My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee, Where'er thou art;
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee, Doubt not thy heart!
Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken- Let faith be given
To the still tones which oft our being waken- They are of heaven!
MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.
Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given, After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial rocks had riven, Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air! Never did clarion's royal blast declare Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd, As the deep sweetness of one word could bear Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow'd By strong affection's anguish!-one low word- "Mary-and all the triumph wrung from death Was thus reveal'd! and thou, that so hadst err'd,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith Didst cast thee down before th' all-conquering Son, Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won! From Female Characters of Scripture.
The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, When a young mother, with her First-born, thence Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd Unto the Temple-service. By the hand 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 her's, 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, cross'd 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 clear 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 her, 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 her's, and, half in fear,
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung, even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake 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?-
"How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?
By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, even 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?
"Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,
Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs 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 veil 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? Will 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 well-spring 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 stag 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!"
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