Poems of Nature, part 5, Religious Poems 1 | Page 7

love, our dear
And Heavenly Father
sends him here.
There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There 's rest in his still
countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with
words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He
kindly trains us to endure.
Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling
palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile
and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own
our Father's will.
O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;

He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be

resigned
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth
all things well!"
1847.
THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND.
Against the sunset's glowing wall
The city towers rise black and tall,

Where Zorah, on its rocky height,
Stands like an armed man in the
light.
Down Eshtaol's vales of ripened grain
Falls like a cloud the night
amain,
And up the hillsides climbing slow
The barley reapers
homeward go.
Look, dearest! how our fair child's head
The sunset light hath
hallowed,
Where at this olive's foot he lies,
Uplooking to the
tranquil skies.
Oh, while beneath the fervent heat
Thy sickle swept the bearded
wheat,
I've watched, with mingled joy and dread,
Our child upon
his grassy bed.
Joy, which the mother feels alone
Whose morning hope like mine had
flown,
When to her bosom, over-blessed,
A dearer life than hers is
pressed.
Dread, for the future dark and still,
Which shapes our dear one to its
will;
Forever in his large calm eyes,
I read a tale of sacrifice.
The same foreboding awe I felt
When at the altar's side we knelt,

And he, who as a pilgrim came,
Rose, winged and glorious, through
the flame.
I slept not, though the wild bees made
A dreamlike murmuring in the
shade,
And on me the warm-fingered hours
Pressed with the
drowsy smell of flowers.

Before me, in a vision, rose
The hosts of Israel's scornful foes,--

Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear,
Glittered in noon's hot
atmosphere.
I heard their boast, and bitter word,
Their mockery of the Hebrew's
Lord,
I saw their hands His ark assail,
Their feet profane His holy
veil.
No angel down the blue space spoke,
No thunder from the still sky
broke;
But in their midst, in power and awe,
Like God's waked
wrath, our child I saw!
A child no more!--harsh-browed and strong,
He towered a giant in the
throng,
And down his shoulders, broad and bare,
Swept the black
terror of his hair.
He raised his arm--he smote amain;
As round the reaper falls the
grain,
So the dark host around him fell,
So sank the foes of Israel!
Again I looked. In sunlight shone
The towers and domes of Askelon;

Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd
Within her idol temple
bowed.
Yet one knelt not; stark, gaunt, and blind,
His arms the massive
pillars twined,--
An eyeless captive, strong with hate,
He stood
there like an evil Fate.
The red shrines smoked,--the trumpets pealed
He stooped,--the giant
columns reeled;
Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall,
And the
thick dust-cloud closed o'er all!
Above the shriek, the crash, the groan
Of the fallen pride of Askelon,

I heard, sheer down the echoing sky,
A voice as of an angel cry,--
The voice of him, who at our side
Sat through the golden eventide;

Of him who, on thy altar's blaze,
Rose fire-winged, with his song of

praise.
"Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain,
Gray mother of the mighty slain!

Rejoice!" it cried, "he vanquisheth!
The strong in life is strong in
death!
"To him shall Zorah's daughters raise
Through coming years their
hymns of praise,
And gray old men at evening tell
Of all be
wrought for Israel.
"And they who sing and they who hear
Alike shall hold thy memory
dear,
And pour their blessings on thy head,
O mother of the mighty
dead!"
It ceased; and though a sound I heard
As if great wings the still air
stirred,
I only saw the barley sheaves
And hills half hid by olive
leaves.
I bowed my face, in awe and fear,
On the dear child who slumbered
near;
"With me, as with my only son,
O God," I said, "Thy will be
done!"
1847.
MY SOUL AND I
Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
I would question thee,
Alone
in the shadow drear and stark
With God and me!
What, my soul, was thy errand here?
Was it mirth or ease,
Or
heaping up dust from year to year?
"Nay, none of these!"
Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight
Whose eye looks still
And
steadily on thee through the night
"To do His will!"
What hast thou done, O soul of mine,
That thou tremblest so?
Hast
thou wrought His task, and kept the line
He bade thee go?

Aha! thou tremblest!--well I see
Thou 'rt craven grown.
Is it so hard
with God and me
To stand alone?
Summon thy sunshine bravery back,
O wretched sprite!
Let me hear
thy voice through this deep and black
Abysmal night.
What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth,
For God and Man,

From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth
To life's mid span?
What, silent all! art sad of cheer?
Art