She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

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.

"From the house

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 !"

As he spoke, a step,

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

Is 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?

He who once wept with Mary-angels keeping Their unthank'd watch-are a foreshadowing