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Slowly, then rippled through the woods away.
Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild,
Winding the river's course.

'Twas near the flush

Of eve, and, with a multitude around,
Who from the cities had come out to hear,
He stood breast-high amid the running stream,
Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power.
His simple raiment was of camel's hair,
A leathern girdle close about his loins,
His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat
The locust and wild honey of the wood-
But like the face of Moses on the mount
Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye
Burn'd the mild fire of love-and as he spoke
The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift
To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole.

Silent upon the green and sloping bank

The people sat, and while the leaves were shook
With the birds dropping early to their nests,
And the gray eve came on, within their hearts
They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream
Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast
As he divined their thought. "I but baptize,"
He said, "with water; but there cometh One,
The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare
E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire
And with the Holy Ghost." And lo! while yet
The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes,
And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid

His raiment off, and with his loins alone
Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs,
In their angelic slightness, meek and bare,
He waited to go in. But John forbade,
And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there,
And said, "Nay, Master! I have need of thine,
Not thou of mine!" And Jesus, with a smile
Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks,
And answer'd, "Suffer it to be so now;
For thus it doth become me to fulfil

All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream,
He took around him the Apostle's arm,
And drew him gently to the midst. The wood
Was thick with the dim twilight as they came
Up from the water. With his clasped hands
Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently
Follow'd his Master's steps-when lo! a light,
Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun,
Yet lambent as the softly burning stars,
Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away
Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ;

And as a voice, fearful exceedingly,

Broke from the midst, "THIS IS MY MUCH LOVED SON IN WHOM I AM WELL PLEASED,' a snow-white dove,

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Floating upon its wings, descended through;
And shedding a swift music from its plumes,
Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast.

SCENE IN GETHSEMANE.

THE moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow,
Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim;
And the deep silence which subdues the breath
Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world
As sleep upon the pulses of a child.
'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane,
With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved

In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice,

With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear
Of his disciples, it vibrated on

Like the first whisper in a silent world.
They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd
The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses
Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need
Of near communion, for his gift of strength
Was wasted by the spirit's weariness.
He left them there, and went a little on,
And in the depth of that hush'd silentness,
Alone with God, he fell upon his face,
And as his heart was broken with the rush
Of his surpassing agony, and death,

Wrung to him from a dying universe,

Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, He gave his sorrows way-and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer,

"Father, if it be possible with thee,

Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word,
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks,
Stilleth the press of human agony !

The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul;

And though his strength was weakness, and the light
Which led him on till now was sorely dim,
He breathed a new submission-" Not my will,
But thine be done, oh Father!" As he spoke,
Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole
Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky
As if the stars were swept like instruments.
No cloud was visible, but radiant wings
Were coming with a silvery rush to earth,
And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one,
With an illumined forehead, and the light
Whose fountain is the mystery of God,
Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him,
And nerved him with a ministry of strength.
It was enough-and with his godlike brow
Re-written of his Father's messenger,
With meekness, whose divinity is more
Than power and glory, he return'd again.
To his disciples, and awaked their sleep,
For "he that should betray him was at hand."

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

THE Roman sentinel stood helm'd 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
Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust,
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall,
And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun.
Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept
His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream
Was broken by the solitary foot

Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head
To curse him for a tributary Jew,

And slumberously dozed on.

'Twas now high noon.

The dull, low murmur of a funeral

Went through the city-the sad sound of feet
Unmix'd with voices-and the sentinel

Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly
Up the wide streets along whose paved way
The silent throng crept slowly. They came on,
Bearing a body heavily on its bier,

And by the crowd that in the burning sun,

Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent

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