SKETCHES.
Morn breaketh in the east. The purple cloudsAre 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 tremulous forest leafTo her majestic master, sleeps. As yetThere is no mist upon the deep blue sky,And the clear dew is on the blushing bosomsOf 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 uncovered. ’Tis his wontTo gaze upon the gorgeous orient;And at that hour the awful majestyOf one who talketh often with his God,Is wont to come again and clothe his browAs at his fourscore strength. But now he seemethTo be forgetful of his vigorous frame,And boweth to his staff as at the hourOf noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!He looketh at its pencilled messengers,Coming in golden raiment, as if lightWere opening a fearful scroll in heaven.Ah! he is waiting till it herald inThe hour to sacrifice his much loved son!Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,Watching the steps of Abraham and her childAlong the dewy sides of the far hills,And praying that her sunny boy faint not.Would she have watched their path so silently,If she had known that he was going up,Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slainAs a white lamb for sacrifice? They trodTogether onward, patriarch and child;The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade,In straight and fair proportions, as of oneErect in early vigor. He stood upFirm in his better strength, and like a treeRooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not.His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,And left his brow uncovered; and his face,Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forthLike a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.But the young boy, he of the laughing eyeAnd 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 EastIts fitness for an Eden, stole like lightInto his spirit, ravishing his thoughtsWith love and beauty. Every thing he met,Floating or beautiful, the lightest wingOf bird or insect, or the palest dyeOf the fresh flowers, won him from his path;And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,As he flung back his silken hair, and sprungAway to some green spot or clustering vine,To pluck his infant trophies. Every treeAnd 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 upLike a light veil from nature, and the heatCame 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 asideTo seek the olive shades, or lave his lipsIn the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,Whose gush hath so much music. WearinessStole on the gentle boy, and he forgotTo toss his sunny hair from off his brow,And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,As in the early morning; but he keptClose by his father’s side, and bent his headUpon his bosom like a drooping bud,Lifting it not, save now and then to stealA look up to the face whose sternness awedHis childishness to silence.It was noon;And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.He could not look upon his son and pray;But with his hand upon the clustering curlsOf the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that GodWould nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was madeFor the stern conflict. In a mother’s loveThere is more tenderness; the thousand cordsWoven with every fibre of her heart,Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;But love in man is one deep principle,Which, yielding not to lighter influence,Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laidThe wood upon the altar. All was done.He stood a moment, and a vivid flushPassed o’er his countenance; and then he nervedHis spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,And Abraham turned 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 heldHis loved, his beautiful, his only son,And lifted up his arm, and called on God—And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fellUpon his face and wept.
Morn breaketh in the east. The purple cloudsAre 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 tremulous forest leafTo her majestic master, sleeps. As yetThere is no mist upon the deep blue sky,And the clear dew is on the blushing bosomsOf 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 uncovered. ’Tis his wontTo gaze upon the gorgeous orient;And at that hour the awful majestyOf one who talketh often with his God,Is wont to come again and clothe his browAs at his fourscore strength. But now he seemethTo be forgetful of his vigorous frame,And boweth to his staff as at the hourOf noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!He looketh at its pencilled messengers,Coming in golden raiment, as if lightWere opening a fearful scroll in heaven.Ah! he is waiting till it herald inThe hour to sacrifice his much loved son!Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,Watching the steps of Abraham and her childAlong the dewy sides of the far hills,And praying that her sunny boy faint not.Would she have watched their path so silently,If she had known that he was going up,Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slainAs a white lamb for sacrifice? They trodTogether onward, patriarch and child;The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade,In straight and fair proportions, as of oneErect in early vigor. He stood upFirm in his better strength, and like a treeRooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not.His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,And left his brow uncovered; and his face,Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forthLike a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.But the young boy, he of the laughing eyeAnd 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 EastIts fitness for an Eden, stole like lightInto his spirit, ravishing his thoughtsWith love and beauty. Every thing he met,Floating or beautiful, the lightest wingOf bird or insect, or the palest dyeOf the fresh flowers, won him from his path;And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,As he flung back his silken hair, and sprungAway to some green spot or clustering vine,To pluck his infant trophies. Every treeAnd 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 upLike a light veil from nature, and the heatCame 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 asideTo seek the olive shades, or lave his lipsIn the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,Whose gush hath so much music. WearinessStole on the gentle boy, and he forgotTo toss his sunny hair from off his brow,And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,As in the early morning; but he keptClose by his father’s side, and bent his headUpon his bosom like a drooping bud,Lifting it not, save now and then to stealA look up to the face whose sternness awedHis childishness to silence.It was noon;And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.He could not look upon his son and pray;But with his hand upon the clustering curlsOf the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that GodWould nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was madeFor the stern conflict. In a mother’s loveThere is more tenderness; the thousand cordsWoven with every fibre of her heart,Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;But love in man is one deep principle,Which, yielding not to lighter influence,Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laidThe wood upon the altar. All was done.He stood a moment, and a vivid flushPassed o’er his countenance; and then he nervedHis spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,And Abraham turned 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 heldHis loved, his beautiful, his only son,And lifted up his arm, and called on God—And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fellUpon his face and wept.
Morn breaketh in the east. The purple cloudsAre 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 tremulous forest leafTo her majestic master, sleeps. As yetThere is no mist upon the deep blue sky,And the clear dew is on the blushing bosomsOf crimson roses, in a holy rest.How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.
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 tremulous 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 bosoms
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 uncovered. ’Tis his wontTo gaze upon the gorgeous orient;And at that hour the awful majestyOf one who talketh often with his God,Is wont to come again and clothe his browAs at his fourscore strength. But now he seemethTo be forgetful of his vigorous frame,And boweth to his staff as at the hourOf noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!He looketh at its pencilled messengers,Coming in golden raiment, as if lightWere opening a fearful scroll in heaven.Ah! he is waiting till it herald inThe hour to sacrifice his much loved son!
The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty
Of one 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 noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!
He looketh at its pencilled messengers,
Coming in golden raiment, as if light
Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven.
Ah! he is waiting till it herald in
The hour to sacrifice his much loved son!
Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,Watching the steps of Abraham and her childAlong the dewy sides of the far hills,And praying that her sunny boy faint not.Would she have watched their path so silently,If she had known that he was going up,Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slainAs a white lamb for sacrifice? They trodTogether onward, patriarch and child;The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade,In straight and fair proportions, as of oneErect in early vigor. He stood upFirm in his better strength, and like a treeRooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not.His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,And left his brow uncovered; and his face,Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forthLike a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.But the young boy, he of the laughing eyeAnd 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 EastIts fitness for an Eden, stole like lightInto his spirit, ravishing his thoughtsWith love and beauty. Every thing he met,Floating or beautiful, the lightest wingOf bird or insect, or the palest dyeOf the fresh flowers, won him from his path;And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,As he flung back his silken hair, and sprungAway to some green spot or clustering vine,To pluck his infant trophies. Every treeAnd 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.
Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands,
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child
Along the dewy sides of the far hills,
And praying that her sunny boy faint not.
Would she have watched their path so silently,
If she had known that he was going up,
Even in his fair-haired 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
Erect in early vigor. He stood up
Firm in his better 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 uncovered; and his face,
Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,
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 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,
Floating 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. 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 upLike a light veil from nature, and the heatCame 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 asideTo seek the olive shades, or lave his lipsIn the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,Whose gush hath so much music. WearinessStole on the gentle boy, and he forgotTo toss his sunny hair from off his brow,And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,As in the early morning; but he keptClose by his father’s side, and bent his headUpon his bosom like a drooping bud,Lifting it not, save now and then to stealA look up to the face whose sternness awedHis childishness to silence.
The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up
Like a light veil from nature, and the 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 his 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 light wings and gaudy flowers,
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 bowed himself,And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.He could not look upon his son and pray;But with his hand upon the clustering curlsOf the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that GodWould nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was madeFor the stern conflict. In a mother’s loveThere is more tenderness; the thousand cordsWoven with every fibre of her heart,Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;But love in man is one deep principle,Which, yielding not to lighter influence,Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laidThe wood upon the altar. All was done.He stood a moment, and a vivid flushPassed o’er his countenance; and then he nervedHis spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,And Abraham turned 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 heldHis loved, his beautiful, his only son,And lifted up his arm, and called on God—And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fellUpon his face and wept.
It was noon;
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,
And buried up his face, and prayed 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 prayed 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, yielding not to lighter influence,
Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid
The wood upon the altar. All was done.
He stood a moment, and a vivid flush
Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:
‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,
And Abraham turned 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 loved, his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and called on God—
And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fell
Upon his face and wept.