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The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,

And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.

It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on

She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,—
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,-and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes,
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew

Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him farther on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,

Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourned:-

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die ?

"I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;
Or wearing rosy hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"Oh no! and when I watched by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,

How prayed I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee, And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;

And oh my last caress

Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair!"

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

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.*

THE Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall
Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread
Of comers to the city mart was done,
For it was almost noon, and a dead heat
Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust,
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall,
And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun.

Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept
His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream
Was broken by the solitary foot

Of some poor mendicant, he rais'd his head

To curse him for a tributary Jew,

And slumberously dozed on.

* Luke, chap. vii.

'Twas now high noon.

The dull, low murmur of a funeral

Went through the city-the sad sound of feet
Unmix'd with voices-and the sentinel

Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly

Up the wide street along whose pavéd way
The silent throng crept slowly. They came on,
Bearing a body heavily on its bier,

And by the crowd that in the burning sun
Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one
Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate
Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent

His spear-point downwards as the bearers past
Bending beneath their burthen. There was one—
Only one mourner. Close behind the bier
Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands,
Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps

Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan
Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively

As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd
Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her.
She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone--
A widow with one son. He was her all-

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