I come with every star:

Making thy streams, that on their noonday track
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace; I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!

Who calls me silent?-I have many tones:
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,

Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done.

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,

Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,

From crush'd affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make the tone heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb;

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love,

They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
Th' intensely bright, the beautiful, the dread—
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes,

These are thy lightnings !-filled with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,

They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,

I

am th' Avenging One!—the armed, the strong,

The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light

Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!-the tempest birth Of memory, thought, remorse :-be holy, Earth!

I am the solemn Night!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her firstborn, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed
Unto the temple service. By the hand
She led him; and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God!

So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest:
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose,
As at a red flower's heart; and where a fount
Lay like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the fane was reached,The earth's one sanctuary; and rapture hushed Her bosom, as before her, through the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers,-and, half in fear, Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung, even as ivy clings, the deep spring-tide Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song,-" Alas!" she cried,

"Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart,—
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, even as pearls the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

66

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dovelike murmurs greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake!

"And thou, wilt slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck; and lift up in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child?-will He not hear thee
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God!—the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

"Therefore, farewell!-I go! my soul may fail me, As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my firstborn! droop not, nor bewail me,—
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shall dwell,

The Rock of Strength,-farewell!"

THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT.

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound!

And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower,
And a Christian host, in its pride and power,

Through the pass beneath him wound.

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,

Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,-be still!