168

SCENE FROM HADAD.

And shooting stellar influence through her caves,
Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre.
Tam. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams.

Had. These Deities

They in ocate with cheerful, gentle rites,

Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines

With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers.
Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks-

Tam. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar.

Had. Nay, sweet.-Having enjoyed all pleasures here That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love,

At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems

Her immaterial flies into the fields,

Or circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks,
And dwells, a Deity, with those she worshipped;
Till time, or fate, return her in its course

To quaff, once more, the cup of human joy.

Tam. But thou believ'st not this.

Had. I almost wish

Thou didst; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar,
Thy spirit is too tender for a Law

Announced in terrors, coupled with the threats
Of an inflexible and dreadful Being,

Whose word annihilates,-who could arrest
The sun in heaven, or, if he pleased, abolish
Light from creation, and leave wretched man
To darkness, as he did to worse, when all

SCENE FROM HADAD.

His firmamental cataracts came down!

All perished,—yet his purpose faltered not!-
His anger never dies, never remits.

But unextinguished burns to deepest hell.
Jealous, implacable

Tam. Peace! impious! peace!

Had. Ha! says not Moses so?

The Lord is jealous.

Tam. Jealous of our faith,

Our love, our true obedience, justly his;
And a poor recompense for all his favours.
Implacable he is not; contrite man,
Ne'er found him so.

Had. But others have,

If oracles be true.

Tam. Little we know

Of them; and nothing of their dire offence.

Had. I meant not to displease, love; but my soul
Revolts, because I think thy gentle nature
Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites.

How dreadful! when the world awakes to light,
And life, and gladness, and the jocund tide
Bounds in the veins of every happy creature,
Morning is ushered by a murdered victim,
Whose wasting members reek upon the air,
Polluting the pure firmament; the shades
Of evening scent of death; almost, the shrine

169

170

SCENE FROM HADAD.

Itself, o'ershadowed by the Cherubim ;
And where the clotted current from the altar
Mixes with Kedron, all its waves are gore.
Nay, nay, I grieve thee;-'tis not for myself,
But that I fear these gloomy things oppress
Thy soul, and cloud its native sunshine.

Tam. (in tears, clasping her hands.)

Witness, ye Heavens! Eternal Father, witness!
Blest God of Jacob! Maker! Friend! Preserver!
That with my heart, my undivided soul,

I love, adore, and praise thy glorious name,
Confess thee Lord of all, believe thy Laws
Wise, just, and merciful, as they are true.
O, Hadad, Hadad! you misconstrue much
The sadness that usurps me ;-'tis for thee

I grieve, for hopes that fade,-for your lost soul,
And my lost happiness.

Had. O, say not so,

Beloved Princess. Why distrust my faith?

Tam. Thou know'st, alas, my weakness; but remember,

I never, never will be thine, although

The feast, the blessing, and the song were past,

Though Absalom and David called me bride,

Till sure thou own'st, with truth, and love sincere,
The Lord Jehovah.

Had. Leave me not-Hear, hear

I do believe I know that Being lives

SCENE FROM HADAD.

Whom you adore. Ah! stay-by proofs I know

Which Moses had not.

Tam. Prince, unclasp my hand.

171

(Exit.)

Had. Untwine thy fetters if thou canst.-How sweet

To watch the struggling softness! It allays

The beating tempest of my thoughts, and flows,
Like the nepenthe of Elysium through me.
How exquisite! Like subtlest essences,
She fills the spirit! How the girdle clips
Her taper waist with its resplendent clasp !
Her bosom's silvery-swelling network yields
Ravishing glimpses, like sweet shade and moonshine
Checkering Astarte's statue—

THE LAST READE

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLM

I SOMETIMES Sit beneath a tree,
And read my own sweet songs
Though nought they may to other
Each humble line prolongs
A tone that might have passed aw
But for that scarce remembered lay

I keep them like a lock or leaf,
That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.