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MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES.

SHE left her babe, and went away to weep,
And listen'd oft to hear if he did cry;
But the great river sung his lullaby,
And unseen angels fann'd his balmy sleep.
And yet his innocence itself might keep;
The sacred silence of his slumb'rous smile
Makes peace in all the monster-breeding Nile;
For God e'en now is moving in the sweep
Of mighty waters. Little dreams the maid,
The royal maid, that comes to woo the wave
With her smooth limbs beneath the trembling shade

Of silver-chaliced lotus, what a child

Her freak of pity is ordain'd to save!

How terrible the thing that looks so mild!

Oct. 6, 1836.

ON A PICTURE OF JEPHTHAH AND HIS DAUGHTER.

BY STROZZI. IN THE POSSESSION OF J. BRANKER, ESQ.

I.

'Tis true the painter's hand can but arrest
The moment that in Nature never stays,
But fleets impatient of the baffled gaze.
Yet if that single moment be the best
Of many years, commission'd to attest
The excellence, whose beauty ne'er decays,
Let not the mute art lack a rightful praise,
That shows the lovely ever loveliest :

And thou, sweet maid! for ever keep that look:

Thou never hadst so sweet a look till now.

Read in thy father's face, as in a book,

Thy virgin doom, the irrevocable vow.
Well were it if thy father ne'er had shook
Away the doubt that hangs upon his brow.

IN CONTINUATION.

II.

WHAT if the angry God hath made thy arm

Dread as the thunderbolt or solid fire,

Or pest obedient to his vengeful ire,

Think'st thou thy oath was like a wizard's charm,
Or hadst thou need, with proffer'd blood, to farm
Jehovah's might? It proves thy faith unsure,
Thy creed idolatrous, thy heart impure;
Thy god a greedy trafficker in harm,

Not Israel's hope. But she, thy daughter, mild,
Whose eager love and over-hasty greeting,
Has made thee murderer of thy blameless child,
Loves not the less for that unhappy greeting;-
Guiltless she dies, to save thee from the guilt
Which must be thine, though her pure blood be spilt.

RUTH.

MANY and fierce the battles that the sons

Of Jacob fought for their predestined land,

And often for their wives and little ones

With blood they stain'd the wilderness of sand ; A tale of bloodshed is their history,

And to all Christian hearts a mystery.

But in the bleakest wild is sometimes seen

A grove of palms beside an oozy spring; There way-worn pilgrims bless the spot of green, And the weak bird lets drop her weary wing: Such, in the wild and waste of Bible truth, Is the sweet story of the faithful Ruth.

RIZPAH.

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BLOOD will have blood. Here is a grievous pest,
And Gibeon craves the blood of guilty Saul.
And what can David do? He gives not all—
One he reserves, to death resigns the rest.
Poor Rizpah, mother of a brood unbless'd,
Must see Amoni and Mephibosheth

For Israel's life to ignominious death,
Because their sire so fatally transgress'd,
Consign'd tho' guiltless. She, sad mother, staid
On her stern seat of sackcloth day by day,
And, like a statue, scared the fowls away,

'Till genial rain the thirst of earth allay'd.

Patient in grief, she won the historic Spirit,
To make immortal mention of her merit.

VOL. II.

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