MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES. SHE left her babe, and went away to weep, 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 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. 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, Not Israel's hope. But she, thy daughter, mild, 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. BLOOD will have blood. Here is a grievous pest, For Israel's life to ignominious death, 'Till genial rain the thirst of earth allay'd. Patient in grief, she won the historic Spirit, VOL. II. A A |