RIZPAH WITH HER SONS,
(The day before they were hanged on Gibeah.)
"BREAD for my mother!" said the voice of one
Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up-
And lo! the princely countenance and mien
Of dark-brow'd Armoni. The eye of Saul-
The very voice and presence of the king-
Limb, port, and majesty,-were present there,
Mock'd like an apparition in her son.
Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand.
With a kind smile, a something of his mother
Unbent the haughty arching of his lip,
And, through the darkness of the widow's heart
Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook
Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears.
"Whence comest thou?" said Rizpah.
Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier-
This in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said,
A king's son takes it for his hungry mother!
God stay the famine !"
Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd,
And like a beam of light into the room
Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven
Or creature of the wild-what flower of earth-
Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul!
The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye.
Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step.
His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like
The incarnation of some blessed dream-
Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye!
Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided
A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread.
His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose;
And, but for nostrils of that breathing fire
That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe
As is the velvet muscle of the pard,
Mephibosheth had been too fair for man.
As if he were a vision that would fade,
Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye,
Grew his bright form familiar; but, like stars,
That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven,
He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved
Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child,
Tenderly, fondly. But for him-the last-
What had she done for heaven to be his mother!
Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice;
She look'd at him forever through her tears;
Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down,
As if the lightest thought of him had lain
In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul.
The morning light was part of him, to her-
What broke the day for, but to show his beauty?
The hours but measured time till he should come;
Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone;
She would have shut the flowers-and call'd the star
Back to the mountain-top-and bade the sun
Pause at eve's golden door-to wait for him!
Was this a heart gone wild?-or is the love
Of mothers like a madness? Such as this
Is many a poor one in her humble home,
Who silently and sweetly sits alone,
Pouring her life all out upon her child.
What cares she that he does not feel how close
Her heart beats after his-that all unseen
Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day,
And watch his sleep like angels? And, when moved
By some sore needed Providence, he stops
In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven,
What cares the mother that he does not see
The link between the blessing and her prayer!
Ile who once wept with Mary-angels keeping
Their unthank'd watch-are a foreshadowing
Of what love is in heaven. We may believe
That we shall know each other's forms hereafter,
And, in the bright fields of the better land,
Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart!
That in the lone paths of this shadowy world
Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining,
That broke upon the darkness of thy way-
Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now,
How many canst thou re-light at the stars
And blush not at their burning? One-one only
Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time,
And fed with faithful fondness to your grave—
(Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven,)
Steadfast thro' all things-near, when most forgot-
And with its finger of unerring truth
Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour-
One lamp-thy mother's love-amid the stars
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before
The throne of God, burn through eternity-
Holy-as it was lit and lent thee here.
The hand in salutation gently raised
To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy,
Linger'd amid his locks. "I sold," he said,
"My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal-
Lo! this my mother! As I pass'd the street,
I hid it in my mantle, for there stand
Famishing mothers, with their starving babes,
At every threshold; and wild, desperate men
Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down,
Watching to rob those who, from house to house,
Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother!
Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee!"
JESUS was there but yesterday. The prints
Of his departing feet were at the door;
His "Peace be with you!" was yet audible
In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear;
And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air,
Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breath
Of angels left on watch--so conscious still
The place seem'd of his presence! Yet, within,
The family by Jesus loved were weeping,
For Lazarus lay dead.
By the pale sleeper. He was young to die.
The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt
With his benignant smile-the soft fair lines
Breathing of hope-were still all eloquent,
Like life well- mock'd in marble. That the voice,
Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven,
Toned with unearthly sweetness-that the light,
Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids,
Was veiling before God its timid fire,
New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve-
That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss,
Not with this cold clay sleeping-Mary knew.
Her heaviness of heart was not for him!
But close had been the tie by Death divided.
The intertwining locks of that bright hair
That wiped the feet of Jesus-the fair hands
Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while He taught-
Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison,
Than with one soul this sister and her brother
Had lock'd their lives together. In this love,
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