In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of wo:
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die !
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb!
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ;-
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee.
May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy Absalom!"
He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently-and left him there-
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM.
He sat upon the "ass's foal" and rode
Toward Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd,
Closely and silently, the faithful twelve,
And on before him went a multitude
Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands
Strewing their garments thickly in his way.
Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd,
Tame as its patient dam; and as the song
Of "welcome to the Son of David" burst
Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves
Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears,
It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back,
And then, subdued by an invisible hand,
Meekly trode onward with its slender feet.
The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone
As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods
Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west,
And the light foal, with quick and toiling step,
And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way
Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind
Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd
The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised
His calm blue eye-there stood Jerusalem!
Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath
His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line
Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs
Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart.
There stood Jerusalem! How fair she look'd-
The silver sun on all her palaces,
And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires
Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream
Lacing the meadows with its silver band,
And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky
With the morn's exhalations. There she stood-
Jerusalem-the city of his love,
Chosen from all the earth; Jerusalem-
That knew him not-and had rejected him;
Jerusalem-for whom he came to die!
The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips
At the fair sight; the children leap'd and sang
Louder Hosannas; the clear air was fill'd
With odor from the trampled olive-leaves-
But Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw
His Master's tears, and closer to his side
He came with yearning looks, and on his neck
The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness,
And mourn'd-"How oft, Jerusalem! would I
Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen
Her brood beneath her wings-but ye would not!"
He thought not of the death that he should die-
He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce
His forehead-of the buffet on the cheek-
The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn !—
Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye
Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew,
While they who "could not watch with him one hour"
Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood,
Praying the "cup might pass."
cup might pass." And Golgotha
Stood bare and desert by the city wall,
And in its midst, to his prophetic eye,
Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies
Were number'd all-the nails were in his feet-
Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips-
The blood and water gushing from his side-
The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain-
And, while his own disciples fled in fear,
A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his!
Ay!-he forgot all this. He only saw
Jerusalem,-the chos'n-the loved-the lost!
He only felt that for her sake his life
Was vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love,
The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in black,
Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love,
In earth or heaven, equal unto this?
It was a green spot in the wilderness,
Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine
Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss
Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass
Of the broad circle stretching evenly
To the straight larches, had a heavier foot
Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in
Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool,
Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet,
And, hushing as they spread into the light,
Circled the edges of the pebbled tank
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