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THE HEBREW MOTHER.

So passed they on,

219

O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves,
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling raindrops on the olive-boughs,
With their cold dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed 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 lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for her rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls,
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reached,
The earth's one sanctuary: and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light like floating gold.-But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through the rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swelled 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 gasp 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?-

220

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en 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

Turned 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 shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water urn!

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!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

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 firstborn! droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

221

YE dear companions of my silent hours,
Whose pages oft before my eyes would strew
So many sweet and variegated flowers-
Dear Books, awhile, perhaps for aye, adieu!
The dark cloud of misfortune o'er me lours:
No more by winter's fire-in summer's bowers,
My toil-worn mind shall be refreshed by you:
We part! sad thought! and while the damp devours
Your leaves, and the worm slowly eats them through,
Dull Poverty and its attendant ills,

Wasting of health, vain toil, corroding care,

And the world's cold neglect, which surest kills,
Must be my bitter doom; yet I shall bear

Unmurmuring, for my good perchance these evils are.

NAPOLEON MORIBUNDUS.

BY CHARLES MACARTHY.

Sume superbiam
Quæsitam meritis.

YES! bury me deep in the infinite sea,
Let my heart have a limitless grave;
For my spirit in life was as fierce and free
As the course of the tempest-wave.

As far from the stretch of all earthly control
Were the fathomless depths of my mind;
And the ebbs and flows of my single soul
Were as tides to the rest of mankind.

Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world,
As in life did the voice of my fame;

And each mutinous billow that's sky-ward curled
Shall seem to re-echo my name.

That name shall be storied in annals of crime

In the uttermost corners of earth;

Now breathed as a curse-now a spell-word sublime, In the glorified land of my birth.

Ay! plunge my dark heart in the infinite sea;
It would burst from a narrower tomb;

Shall less than an ocean his sepulchre be
Whose mandate to millions was doom?

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'MID shouts that hailed her from the shore And bade her speed, the bark is gone, The dreary ocean to explore

Whose waters sweep the frigid zone ;— And bounding on before the gale,

To bright eyes shining through their tears, "Twixt sea and sky, her snowy sail

A lessening speck appears.

Behold her next 'mid icy isles,

Lone wending on her cheerless way; 'Neath skies where summer scarcely smiles, Whose light seems but the shade of day. But while the waves she wanders o'er, Around her form they sink to sleep; The pulse of nature throbs no more— She's chained within the deep!

Then Hope for ever took her flight;
Each face as monumental stone,
Grew ghastly in the fading light

In which their latest sun went down;
And ere its disc to darkness passed,
And closed their unreturning day,
The seaman sought the dizzy mast,
To catch its latest ray.

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