Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.
The silken curtain slumbered in their folds
Not ev❜n a tassel stirring in the air—
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came
A gradual brightness o'er his calm sad face,
And drawing nearer to the bed, he mov’d
The silken curtain silently apart
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay―
The linen vesture folded on her breast,
And over it her white transparent hands,
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails.
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips,
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin,
The breathing curve was mockingly like life,
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin
Ran the light branches of the azure veins—
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay
Matching the arches pencil'd on her brow.
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose
Upon the pillow, hid her small round ears
In curls of glossy blackness, and about
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung
Like airy shadows floating as they slept.
"Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour rais'd
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said
"Maiden! Arise!"—and suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips
And through her cheek the rallied color ran,
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirr'd in the linen vesture, and she clasp'd
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes
Full on his beaming countenance—AROSE!
STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,
And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.
Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear
This noise of people-this sultry air?
Thou alone of the feather'd race
Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the "the gentle dove"
Has become a name for trust and love.
It is no light chance. Thou art kept apart,
Wisely by Him who has tam'd thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were seal'd in the crowded air;
I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
Come then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves,
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out,
I hear and see
Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee!
ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY.
A BOY! yet in his eye you trace
The watchfulness of riper years,
And tales are in that serious face
Of feelings early steep'd in tears;
And in that tranquil gaze
There lingers many a thought unsaid,
Shadows of other days,
Whose hours with shapes of beauty came and fled.
And sometimes it is even so!
The spirit ripens in the germ;
The new-seal'd fountains overflow,
The bright wings tremble in the worm.
The soul detects some passing token,
Some emblem, of a brighter world,
And, with its shell of clay unbroken,
Its shining pinions are unfurl'd,
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