And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him
114. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-Thomas Hood.
One more unfortunate, Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care, Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing!
Touch her not scornfully! Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly,— Not of the stains of her; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses,Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Oh, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed,— Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,-- No matter how coldly The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it! Picture it,- think of it! Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care! Fashioned so slenderly, Young and so fair!
Ere her limbs, frigidly, Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Savior!
115. DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.-N. P. Willis.
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood With his faint people for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words, and as the sun Rose up in heaven he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh, when the heart is full- where bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a mockery - how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer.
He prayed for Israel — and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield- and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh, for Absalom,
For his estranged, misguided Absalom
The proud, bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty to defy
The heart that cherished him—for him he prayed,
In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication, and forgave him there Before his God for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave, and as the folds
Sank to their still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. The mighty Joab stood beside the bier And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang, but the bent form Of David entered; and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with the dead.
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill
Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!
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