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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 thought of the dark stream
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
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
THE WIDOW OF NAIN.
The Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall,
'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-
Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate