Oh! blessed Lord, I thank thee ! see it comes-
It comes-it comes- -ah me! it comes too fast!
It is not help-it is destruction!

'Tis the devouring whirlwind of the waste
Which tears the sand up in a mighty stream
Whose vortex overwhelms and swallows all!
Oh God of goodness shield me, shield my child !

(She falls on her face, and remains on the earth till
the whirlwind is passed.)

"Tis gone!-my child, my child, my child,-Oh blest Be Heaven in its mercy-he still lives!

(She raises him from the sand, and places his head on
her knees.)

How his brow burns and throbs! and his parched skin
Almost seems cracking with the withering heat!
How often have I nursed him thus upon my lap

As he has slumbered in the heat of noon,

But sheltered by the green and shadowing palm-trees!
And did I think that e'er the time would be
When the dear office would become a curse?
-Alas! alas! he dies!-his hands and feet
Are chilling cold as clay--and a black shade
Spreads o'er the deadly paleness of his face!
I cannot bear to see him die.

(She places him on the earth.)
Oh God! Oh God!

Have I deserved this? Ishmael! Ishmael !

My child!

(She presses her lips to his in a long kiss ;-then goes to some distance, and out of sight of the spot

where he lies.)

My child is dying, and my own life

Is ebbing fast ;-oh 'tis a dreadful death
To perish in the desert thus by thirst!—

And my child too, my child! Oh Lord of Heaven,
How have sinned that I am punished thus ?
I loved my master, as his bond-maid should-
I loved him, as a woman loves her lord-
And oh! was this a sin? When my full heart
Yearned into his in soft abandonment,
How knew I 'twas a crime whose penalty
Was thus to perish with my child through his
Unkindness? and e'en when he turned me forth
He mocked me with the promise that the boy
Should live and prosper.-Even now he dies !—
And I am perishing too!-But my last words
Shall not be those of guilty murmuring!
Into His sparing hand let me commend
My spirit! (She kneels and prays.)

Merciful and mighty Lord,

Look on thy sinning servant! look upon my child
And spare, oh! spare, his young and innocent life!
If I have sinned against thee, let me perish,
But spare my child-my dear, my sinless, child!
Arrest the life-breath flitting on his lip-
Quicken the pulse fast sinking in his heart-
Give back the lost strength to his failing limbs-
Preserve-restore his life-and let me die!

(She bows her head to the earth, and remains in
intense devotion. After some time a voice is

(She slowly raises her head. The Angel appears in the midst of a body of pale and beautiful light.)

THE ANGEL.

Why weep'st thou, Hagar? why is thy loud wail
Thus raised unto the throne of Heaven? The Lord
Has heard thy prayer, and hearkened to the cry.

Of the young lad; He has stretched forth his hand
To spare thee and thy child-Behold!

(The Angel descends to the earth, and stamps with his foot upon the ground.—A gushing fountain

rises.)

HAGAR,

Blessed

Be the Lord in his great mercy! Oh my child

Is saved!

(She eagerly scoops up some water in the hollow of her hands, and runs to where Ishmael lies.)

Oh! let me pour and spread

The heavenly moisture on his burning brow

And blackened lips! Look up, dear Ishmael! We are saved-look up-here's water-blessed water! (Ishmael slowly uncloses his eyes, he drinks the water, and by degrees revives.)

ISHMAEL.

Blessings on you, mother! Oh how delicious

Is this cool water! more, mother! more !—more!

HAGAR.

Dear child, here is a full and gushing spring—
Arise-come-come-

(She assists him to the fountain—he plunges into it,
and drinks.)

ISHMAEL.

Oh! I could plunge and plunge

And roll for ever in this cooling wave,

And drink it in at every pore as well

As with my lips! But, mother, you too thirst-
Drink-drink with me.

HAGAR.

I thought not of myself,

But I do thirst-severely (She stoops and drinks.) (Ishmael looks up, and sees the Angel-he rises from the water, and bows before him.)

THE ANGEL.

Ishmael,

Thy mother's voice has reach'd the heavenly throne
Of the All-merciful-and He hath spared thee!
Be grateful unto her-be thankful unto HIM!
Behold how Power and Wisdom thus bring good
From evil. Thou wast turned into the waste,
And laid thee down to die. But here, e'en here,
Thy seed shall rise into a mighty tribe
Which shall o'erspread and people all this land.
They shall not dwell in cities, nor shall roofs
Be built above their heads; they shall make tents
And pitch them on the face of this wide waste
Where'er their pleasure bids ;—and they shall be
Mighty in archery and horsemanship.

Their steeds shall be as fleet as is the wind,
And bear them as that bears the racking cloud.
They shall be many in the land, and thou
Even thou shalt be their founder. But bethink thee,
When children shall spring up, and rustic riches
Shall flow in plenty round thee-of this time-
When faint, and sinking with fatigue and thirst,
GoD sent me to thy help, and bade me raise
Water from out the dry and sandy earth
That you might drink and live! Remember too
That 'twas thy mother saved thee !-She supplied
Thy failing strength with her's though failing too—
She stripped the cov'ring from her burning brow

To shelter thine-she thought not of her thirst,
Fierce and devouring as a furnace flame,
Till thine was satisfied! And when old age
Shall make her helpless as her child once was,
Then cherish her, as she has fostered thee.
The utmost measure of a son's affection
Never can even to the half repay

The force and fulness of his mother's love.

A PANEGYRIC ON MELANCHOLY.

Who would exchange melancholy remembrances for the apathy of him who thinks only of the present? Who would exchange for unfeeling contentment that creative memory which peoples the present time with past joys, past friendships, past love, although the recollection carries sadness along with it?-The Lounger.

WHO would?-No-I disagree with Dante, Lord Byron, and all those poets who would fain persuade us that the recollection of past joys only produce painful feelings. If I am miserable, I still find satisfaction in thinking I once enjoyed happiness; the contrast may add a pang to present suffering, but still it calls off attention from the actual moment, and brings a ray of light which, like a wintry gleam, may indeed impart but faint heat, yet gilds and throws a bright tinge on the mind that lay in previous gloom. The pleasures of memory have been sung, and they have been considered a poetical fiction ;-its pains have been more frequently the theme of remark,-and the reason is obvious. In most constitutions, pain produces a much stronger effect, and leaves a much deeper impression than joy. Men remember" what breaks their hearts or heads," but their days of social ease, of quiet