Of crimson roses in a holy rest.
How hallow'd is the hour of morning!

meet

Ay, 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 that 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 vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of moontide sultriness. And that

bright sunHe looketh at its pencill'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-loved son!

Light poureth on the world. And Sarahı stands

Watching the steps of Abraham and her child

Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint

Nerved to a solemn 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 seem'd 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 clustering vine,

To pluck his infant trophies.

tree

Every

And fragrant shrub was a new hidingplace;

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 of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath SO much music. Weariness

Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow,

And spring for the fresh flowers and 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 noonAnd 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. *✶