JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

By N. P. WILLIS.

THE mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeth's streets. His helm was proudly

set,

And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise
Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India's leopard; and his mail,
Whose shekels none in Israel might bear,
Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.
His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look
Of his dark lofty eye and bended brow

Might quell the lion.

A moment more,

And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang

One with a bounding footstep, and a brow

Of light to meet him. Oh! how beautiful!

Her dark eye flashing like a sunlit gem―
And her luxuriant hair!-'twas like the sweep
Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still,
As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw
Her arms about his neck-he heeded not.
She called him "Father"-but he answered not.
She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?
There was no anger in that bloodshot eye.
Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,
And laid her white hand gently on his brow,
And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords,

The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands,
And spoke the name of God, in agony.

She knew that he was stricken, then; and rush'd Again into his arm; and, with a flood

Of tears she could not stay, she sobb'd a prayer
That he would breathe his agony in words.
He told her, and a momentary flush

Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul
Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood
Calmly and nobly up, and said, 'twas well-
And she would die.

The sun had well-nigh set.

The fire was on the altar; and the priest

Of the high God was there. A pallid man
Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven,
As if he would have pray'd, but had no words—
And she who was to die, the calmest one

In Israel at that hour, stood up alone.

And waited for the sun to set.

Her face

Was pale, but very beautiful-her lip

Had a more delicate outline, and the tint

Was deeper; but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels.

The sun set

And she was dead-but not by violence.

DEATH OF ABSALOM.

By N. P. WILLIS.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
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 lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd 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 rest
Upon the shores 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 he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.

They gather'd 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 bow'd 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 an empty mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel-and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd 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 cherish'd him-for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,

I

Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, 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
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bow'd 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 in 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!

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
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 flung;