LEAH.

Most patient of all women, unbeloved,
Yet ever toiling for thy husband's grace,
Methinks I see thee, with thy downcast face,

Pondering on tasks that should not be reproved.
For seven long years their tents were not removed,
And Leah work'd for Jacob all the while,
And yet she hardly got a sullen smile,-
So good a wife, and mother duly proved.
Yet sore it must have been to see her mate
Rising at morn to work, and working late,
And know he work'd so hard to get another;
And yet she bore it all, in hope to be,

What her sweet offspring was, by God's decree,
The better Eve, the second Adam's mother.

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 sang 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!

October 6, 1836.

ON A PICTURE OF JEPHTHAH AND HIS DAUGHTER.

BY STROZZI. IN THE POSSESSION OF J. BRANCKER, 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 meeting ;-
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.