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 smile-
Play'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.

And the king arose

And gazed on them a moment, and with voice

Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd,

"Is the child dead?" They answer'd, "He is dead!" But when they look'd to see him fall again

Upon his face, and rend himself and weep—
For, while the child was sick, his agony

Would bear no comforters, and they had thought
His heartstrings with the tidings must give way-
Behold! his face grew calm, and, with his robe
Gather'd together like his kingly wont,
He silently went in.

And David came,

Robed and anointed, forth,

And he return'd,

Of God went up to pray.

and to the house

And they set bread before him, and he ate

And when they marvell'd, he said, "Wherefore mourn?

The child is dead, and I shall go to him—

But he will not return to me."

THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM.

MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds
Are putting on their gold and violet,

To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming.
Sleep is upon the waters and the wind;
And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf
To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet

There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms
Of crimson roses in a holy rest.

How hallow'd is the hour of morning! meet-
Ay, beautifully meet-for the pure prayer.
The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont
To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty

Of man who talketh often with his God,

Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow

As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame,

And boweth to his staff as at the hour

Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun—
He looketh at its pencill'd messengers,

Coming in golden raiment, as if all

Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness.

Ah, he is waiting till it herald in

The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son!

Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child
Along the dewy sides of the far hills,

And praying that her sunny boy faint not.
Would she have watch'd their path so silently,

If she had known that he was going up,
E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain
As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod
Together onward, patriarch and child-