DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD.

'Twas daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn
Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently
The eyelids of the king. And David woke,
And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now,
Of the vast palace, were astir; and feet
Glided along the tesselated floors

With a pervading murmur: and the fount
Whose music had been all the night unheard,
Play'd as if light had made it audible;

And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware.

The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn

Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy! and now

The king's wont was to lie upon his couch

Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court,

And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven, Play with his lov'd son by the fountain's lip;

For-with idolatry confess'd alone

To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp-
He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when
The golden selvedge of his robe was heard
Sweeping the marble pavement, from within

Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words— Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only—

Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy—
An infant cherub, leaping as if used

To hover with that motion upon wings,
And marvellously beautiful! His brow

Had the inspired up-lift of the king's,
And kingly was his infantine regard;
But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould
Of Bathsheba's-the hue and type of love,
Rosy and passionate-and oh, the moist
Unfathomable blue of his large eyes

Gave out its light as twilight shows a star,
And drew the heart of the beholder in!-

And this was like his mother.

David's lips

Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile
He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes,
And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy
Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid
That but the lifting of his lids might jar
The heart-cup's over-fulness. Unobserved,

A servant of the outer court had knelt
Waiting before him; and a cloud the while
Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven;
And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun

Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes

And frown'd upon the servant; for that hour
Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child,
And none might seek him. And the king arose,
And with a troubled countenance look'd up
To the fast-gathering darkness; and, behold,
The servant bow'd himself to earth, and said,
"Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord!"
And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp
Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child,
He drew him to his breast, and cover'd him
With the long foldings of his robe, and said,
"I will come forth. Go now!" And lingeringly,
With kisses on the fair uplifted brow,

And mingled words of tenderness and prayer
Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips,
He gave to them the child, and bow'd his head
Upon his breast with agony. And so,

To hear the errand of the man of God,

He fearfully went forth.

It was the morning of the seventh day.

A hush was in the palace, for all eyes
Had woke before the morn; and they who drew

The curtains to let in the welcome light,
Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet,
And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir!

The servants who kept watch without the door
Sat motionless; the purple casement-shades
From the low windows had been roll'd away,
To give the child air; and the flickering light
That, all the night, within the spacious court,
Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only,
Paled with the sunrise and fled in.

And hush'd

With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr’d—

So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down,

She watch'd his breathless slumber. The low moan That from his lips all night broke fitfully,

Had silenced with the daybreak; and a smile— Or something that would fain have been a smilePlay'd in his parted mouth; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes,

His senses seem'd all peacefully asleep,

And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn—

That brought back hope to her! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child

Nor breath from out the room-nor foot astir

But morning there-so welcomeless and still

He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights Had wasted, and the mornings come; and days

Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king,
Since the child sicken'd; and, without the door,
Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain—
Listening only to the moans that brought
Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice
Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress,

In loving utterance all broke with tears,

Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And fill'd his prayer with agony.

Oh God!

To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far!

How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on!
And when the spirit, mournfully, at last,
Kneels at thy throne, how cold-how distantly-

The comforting of friends falls on the ear

The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee!

But suddenly the watchers at the door

Rose

up, and they who minister'd within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly

Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba Held the unmoving child upon her knees,

The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whisper'd together.