Absalom.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery vail hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds: and the long stems
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world.
King David's limbs were weary.
He had fled
From far Jerusalem: and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
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 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,—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,
Are such a very mockery-how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer.
He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up

ABSALOM.

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 poured
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
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air.

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed beside him: and the jewelled hilt
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle, and their chief
The mighty Joab stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall silently,
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 his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died; then throwing off

The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

273

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 should'st die,
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle on 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 these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the voice 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 fling, But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come To meet me Absalom!

"And Oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet amid death's gathering gloom
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now farewell! 'tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber o'er thee ; And thy dark sin-oh! I could drink the cup

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee, May God have called thee like a wanderer home, My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment o'er his child: then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer:
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly and composed the pall
Fairly and quietly, and left him there
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep!

N. P. WILLIS.

Sonnet.

There is no remedy for time misspent,
No healing for the waste of idleness,
Whose very languor is a punishment-

Heavier than active souls can feel or guess.
Oh! hours of indolence and discontent,

Not now to be redeemed! ye sting not less,
Because I know this span of life was lent—
For lofty duties, not for selfishness.
Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams,
But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind,
Life, and its choicest faculties were given.

Man should be ever better than he seems-
And shape his acts, and discipline his mind,

To walk adorning earth, expecting Heaven!

Cintern Abbey.

FIVE years have passed five summers, with the length
Of five long winters and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again

Do I behold these steep aud lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence from among the trees,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwelling in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermits cave, where, by his fire,
The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind