Yet turn'd he not aside, but gazing on
From every swelling mount, he saw afar
Amid the hills the humble spires of Nain,
The place of his next errand, and the path
Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away
Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee.

Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd
Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near
The place of burial, and, with straining hands,
Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall,
And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's,
And an inquiring wildness flashing through
The thin, gray lashes of her fever'd eyes,
She came where Jesus stood beside the way.
He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved.
"Weep not!" he said, and, as they stay'd the bier,

And at his bidding laid it at his feet,

He gently drew the pall from out her grasp

And laid it back in silence from the dead.

With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near,

And gaz'd on his calm looks. A minute's space
He stood and pray'd. Then taking the cold hand
He said, "Arise!" And instantly the breast
Heav'd in its cerements, and a sudden flush
Ran through the lines of the divided lips,
And, with a murmur of his mother's name,
He trembled and sat upright in his shroud.
And, while the mourner hung upon his neck,
Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain.

In its most subtle luxury. The air

Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,

DAWN.

I know it has been trifling with the rose,
And stooping to the violet. There is joy

For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest odour with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.

I had awoke from an unpleasant dream,
And light was welcome to me.

I looked out

To feel the common air, and when the breath

Of the delicious morning met my brow
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun
Shone on familiar objects, it was like
The feeling of the captive who comes forth
From darkness to the cheerful light of day.
Oh! could we wake from sorrow; were it all
A troubled dream like this, to cast aside
Like an untimely garment with the morn;
Could the long fever of the heart be cooled
By a sweet breath from nature; or the gloom

Of a bereaved affection pass away

With looking on the lively tint of flowers-
How lightly were the spirit reconciled

To make this beautiful, bright world its home!