And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 114. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-Thomas Hood. One more unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully! Make no deep scrutiny Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family, Wipe those poor lips of hers, Loop up her tresses Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Oh, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Even God's providence Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river; Owning her weakness, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Savior! 115. DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.-N. P. Willis. King David's limbs were weary. He had fled Are such a mockery - how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer. For his estranged, misguided Absalom · The proud, bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty to defy The heart that cherished him—for him he prayed, Strong supplication, and forgave him there The pall was settled. He who slept beneath The mighty Joab stood beside the bier And left him with the dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! "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 those 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; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! |