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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 far Nile,
How prayed I that my father's land might be

An heritage for thee!

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 WIDOW OF NAIN.

The Roman sentinel stood helmed 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 rais’d 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 street along whose pavéd 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 His spear-point downwards as the bearers past Bending beneath their burthen. There was one Only one mourner. Close behind the bier Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thicken’d convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her.

She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone-
A widow with one son. He was her all-
The only tie she had in the wide world-
And he was dead. They could not comfort her.

Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate
The funeral came forth. His lips were pale
With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat
Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn
And simple latchets of his sandals lay
Thick the white dust of travel. He had come
Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not
To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool,
Nor wash his feet in Kishon’s silver springs,
Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side
To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze.
Genesareth stood cool upon the East,
Fast by the sea of Galilee, and there
The weary traveller might bide till eve,
And on the alders of Bethulia’s plains
The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild,

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