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.
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.
THEN Solomon sat on the throne as king;
So had his sire appointed:-great and least,
Hebrew and Stranger, warrior chief and priest,
With one glad shout make air, earth, rock to ring.
Ah! sons of Abraham, is it such a thing
That your old monarch is so nigh deceased?
And ye must blow your horns, as if the feast
Of the ripe harvest and the hopeful spring
Fell on one day. "Tis well the old man dies.
The sweetest string in all the holy lyre
Cracks when the old man heaves his latest sighs,
And with his breath the highest tones expire.
Ten thousand minstrels play for Solomon-
What are they all, if David be not one?
A LITTLE cake he ask'd for, that was all;
And that she gave-'twas all she had to give
To the poor hungry Prophet fugitive;
Not knowing quite, she yet believed the call,
And she was blest. Within her cottage wall,
By day the Prophet prays, at night he lies,
Whose prayer and presence daily multiplies
The meat and cruse that, let what will befal,
Shall still suffice for each successive day.
She gave a little, and she gave enough,
And taught us how to use the passive stuff
That earth affords,—to give and still to pray.
Hope be the Prophet, and the cruse Content!
Where Hope abides the cruse shall ne'er be spent.
By the smooth streams of haughty Babylon
The Jewish Captives sat them down and wept,-
Wept for their king, their country, and their home.
Jerusalem's remembrance, duly kept,
Shadow'd the aspect of a beauteous land,
Darken'd the sun, and ruffled the soft waves;
But chiefly sorrow'd the unhappy band
At the rude taunts of unbelieving slaves.
Sing us a song!" cried they, a song of mirth!"
How could they plume the wing and soar on high,
Forgetful of their sorrow's recent birth,
The dread fulfilment of each prophecy?
Ah no! Jerusalem, they remember'd thee,
And could not touch the harp in thy adversity.
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