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Ev'n I am weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded gasp and girgling breath To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

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THE RAINBOW.

THE evening was glorious, and light through the trees Play'd in sunshine, the rain-drops, the birds, and the breeze; The landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay

On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May.

For the bright queen of spring, as she pass'd down the vale,
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale;
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours,
And fresh in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers.
The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd,

O'er the west threw their splendour of azure and gold;
But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and increas'd,
'Till its margin of black touch'd the zenith and east.
We gaz'd on these scenes, while around us they glow'd,
When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud;
'Twas not like the sun, as at mid-day we view,

Nor the moon, that rolls lightly through star-light and blue,
Like a spirit it came in the van of a storm,

And the eye and the heart hailed its beautiful form;
For it look'd not severe, like an angel of wrath,
But its garments of brightness illumed its dark path.
In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood,
D'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood;
And river, field, village, and woodland grew bright,
As conscious they gave and afforded delight.
"Twas the bow of Omnipotence, bent in His hand,
Whose grasp at creation the universe spann'd;
'Twas the presence of God, in a symbol sublime,
His vow from the flood to the exile of time;
Not dreadful as when in a whirlwind he pleads,
When storms are his chariot, and lightning his steeds;
The black cloud of vengeance his banner unfurl'd,
And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world;
In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire,
And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire,
And the sword and the plague-spot with death strew the
plain;

And vultures and wolve are the graves of the slain.
Not such was that rainbow, that beautiful one!
Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone-the sun;
A pavillion it seem'd, with a deity graced,
And justice and mercy met there and embraced.
Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom,
Like love o'er a death-couch, or hope o'er the tomb;

Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired,
As love had just vanished, or hope had expired.
I gazed not alone on that source of my song;
To all who beheld it these verses belong;
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord!
Each full heart expanded, grew warm and adored.
Like a visit the converse of friends—or a day,
That bow from my sight pass'd for ever away;
Like that visit, that converse, that day, to my heart,
That bow from remembrance can never depart.
'Tis a picture in memory, distinctly defined,
With the strong and imperishing colours of mind:
A part of my being beyond my control,
Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.

THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM.

MORN breaketh in the East. The purple clouds
Are putting on their gold and violet,
To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming.
Sleep is upon the waters and the wind;
And nature, from the wary forest-leaf
To her majestic master, sleeps.
As yet
There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
And the clear dew is on the blushing blossoms
Of crimson roses in a holy rest.

How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,
Aye-beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.
The patriarch standeth at his tented door;
With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;

And at that hour the awful majesty

Of man who talketh often with his God,

Is wont to come again and clothe his brow

As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth

To be forgetful of his vig'rous frame,

And boweth to his staff as at the hour

Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun-
He looketh at his pencil'd messengers
Coming in golden raiment, as if all
Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness.
Ah, he is waiting till it herald in

The hour to sacrifice his much lov'd son!
Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child
Along the dewy sides of the far hills.

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And praying that her sunny boy faint not-
Would she have watch'd their path so silently,
If she had known that he was going up,
Ev'n in his fair hair'd beauty, to be slain
As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod
Together onward, patriarch and child-
The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade
In straight and fair proportions, as of one
Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up
Even in his vig'rous strength, and like a tree
Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not;
His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,
And left his brow uncover'd; and his face,
Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief,
Nerved to a solenn duty, now stood forth
Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.
But the young boy-he of the laughing eye
And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him.
He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew,
And the aroma of the spicy trees,
And all that giveth the delicious east
Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light
Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts
With love and beauty. Every thing he met
Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing
Of bird or insect, or the palest dye

Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path,
And joyously broke forth his tiny shout
As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung
Away to some green spot, or clust❜ring vine,
To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree
And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place,
And he would crouch till the old man came by-
Then bound before him with his childish laugh
Stealing a look behind him playfully,
To see if he had made his father smile.

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up
From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat
Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves,
And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams.
Still trod the patriarch on with that same step
Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside

To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips
In the sweet waters at the Syrian wells,
Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness
Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot
To toss the sunny hair from off his brow,
And spring for the fresh flowers on light wings,
As in the early morning; but he kept
Close by his father's side, and bent his head
Upon his bosom like a drooping bud,
Lifting it not, save now and then to steal
A look up to the face whose sternness awed
His childishness to silence.

It was noon-
And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself,
And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength.
He could not look upon his son and pray,
But with his hand upon the clustering curls
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God
Would nerve him for that hour. Oh man was made
For the stern conflict. In a mother's love
There is more tenderness; the thousand cords
Woven with every fibre of her heart,
Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath;
But love in man is one deep principle,
Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock,
Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid
The wood upon the altar. All was done,
He stood a moment-and a deep, quick flush
Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerv❜d
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke-
"Isaac! my only son"-The boy look'd up,
And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept.
"Where is the lamb, my father?"-oh the tones,
The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
How it doth agonize at such an hour!
It was the last, deep struggle-Abraham held
His lov'd, his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God--
And lo! God's Angel staid him-and he fell
Upon his face and wept.

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