"Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said,

"Thy father is athirst"-and, from the depths

Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts

Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,

She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way

Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool

Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills,

And through the light green hollows

where the lambs

Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts,

His childhood in my heart, and even

now,

As he has slept, my memory has been there,

Counting like treasures all his winning

ways

His unforgotten sweetness:

"Yet so still!—

How like this breathless slumber is to death!

I could believe that in that bosom now There was no pulse-it beats so languidly!

I cannot see it stir; but his red lip! Death would not be so very beautiful! And that half smile-would death have

left that there?

-And should I not have felt that he would die?

And have I not wept over him?-and pray'd

Morning and night for him? and could he die?

-No-God will keep him! He will be my pride

Many long years to come, and his fair hair

Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such pride upon him? - He to die!"

And the fond mother lifted his soft

curls,

And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think

That such fair things could perish.

-Suddenly

Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled

From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees

Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd

His forehead, as she dallied with his hair

And it was cold-like clay! Slow, very slow,

Came the misgiving that her child was dead.

She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed

In a dumb prayer for strength, and then

she took

His little hand and press'd it earnestlyAnd put her lip to his-and look'd again

POUR forth the oil,-pour boldly forth,
It will not fail, until

Thou failest vessels to provide
Which it may largely fill.

Make channels for the streams of love,
Where they may broadly run;
And love has overflowing streams,
To fill them every one.

But if at any time we cease

Such channels to provide,
The very founts of love for us

Will soon be parched and dried.

For we must share, if we would keep
That blessing from above.
Ceasing to give, we cease to have;
Such is the law of love.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH
(1807-1886).

So shall the healing Name be known By thee on many a heathen shore, And Naaman on his chariot throne Wait humbly by Elisha's door.

By thee desponding lepers know

The sacred water's sevenfold might, Then wherefore sink in listless woe?

Your heavenly right to do and bear
All for His sake; nor yield one sigh
To pining doubt; nor ask "What care
In the wide world for such as I?"
JOHN KEBLE (1792-1866).

DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB'S ARMY BY A PESTILENTIAL WIND.

FROM Ashur's vales when proud Sennacherib trod,

Poured his swoln heart, defied the living God,

Urged with incessant shouts his glittering powers,

And Judah shook through all her massy towers;

Round her sad altars pressed the prostrate crowd,

Hosts beat their breasts, and supplian: chieftains bowed;

Loud shrieks of matrons thrilled the troubled air,

And trembling virgins rent their scattered hair;

High in the midst the kneeling king adored,

Spread the blaspheming scroll before the Lord,

Raised his pale hands, and breathed his

Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod,

And teach the trembling nations, "Thou art God!"

Sylphs! in what dread array with pennons broad,

Onward ye floated o'er the ethereal road;

Called each dank steam the reeking marsh exhales,

Contagious vapours and volcanic gales; Gave the soft south with poisonous breath to blow,

And rolled the dreadful whirlwind on the foe!

Hark! o'er the camp the venomed tempest sings,

Man falls on man, on buckler, buckler rings;

Groan answers groan, to anguish yields,

anguish,

And death's loud, accents shake the tented fields!

High rears the fiend his grinning jaws, and wide

Spans the pale nations with colossal stride,

Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand,

And his vast shadow darkens all the land.

ERASMUS DARWIN (1731-1802).

THE DESTRUCTION OF
SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls' nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rockbeating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON (1788-1824).

LA CONVALESCENCE
D'EZECHIAS

[HEZEKIAH'S RECOVERY.]

I HAVE seen this life of tears
Toward its night declining;
At the high noon of my years
Dimly my sun was shining.
For lo! gaunt Death his wings out-
spread,

And straight, with their eternal shade,
Cloaked the light that I adore.
And in the darkness of that night
I sought in vain the vanished light
Of the days that were no more.
God! has Thy hand required

The guerdon I was winning?
Yea! it comes to slit the thread
Of life that it was spinning!
See, for me the last sun riseth!
For I am hurried by Thy breath

From my happy home, the world, And, like a lone leaf, withered, That from the living stem is shed, Plaything of the winds, am hurl'd.

Thus, with cries and coward fears
My sickness seems increasing,
And my eyes, that swim with tears,
To open now are ceasing.
And to the gloomy night I call,
"O Night, within thy sombre pall
Thou'lt envelop me always."
And loud I cry unto the morn,
"This, the day that now is born,
Is the last day of my days!"

My senses are benumbed with fear,
My soul in darkness crying,
Answer, just God, hear, O hear!
I call upon Thee, dying!
Oh God! at last Thy hand it is
Has saved me from the precipice

Yawning sheer beneath my feet.
Thy succor gives me back my life,
And yields my soul, amid the strife

Fought with Death, a comfort sweet. JEAN BAPTISTE ROUSSEAU 1670-1741). (Translated by LAURIE MAGNUS [1872-] and CECIL HEADLAM.)

DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.
THE rage of Babylon is roused,

The King puts forth his strength;
And Judah bends the bow

And points her arrows for the coming

war.

Her walls are firm, her gates are

strong,

Her youth gird on the sword;
High are her chiefs in hope,

For soon will Egypt send the promised

aid.

But who is he whose voice of woe Is heard amid the streets? Whose ominous voice proclaims Her strength, and arms, and promised succours vain.

His meagre cheek is pale and sunk, Wild is his hollow eye,

Yet awful is its glance;

And who could bear the anger of his frown?

Prophet of God! in vain thy lips
Proclaim the woe to come;

In vain thy warning voice

Summons her rulers timely to repent!

The Ethiop changes not his skin.
Impious and reckless still

The rulers spurn thy voice, And now the measure of their crimes is full.

For now around Jerusalem

The countless foes appear;

Far as the eye can reach,

Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege.

Why is the warrior's cheek so pale? Why droops the gallant youth Who late in pride of heart Sharpen'd his javelin for the welcome war?

'Tis not for terror that his eye

Swells with the struggling woe;
Oh! he could bear his ills,

Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace.

His parents do not ask for food,

But they are weak with want; His wife has given her babes Her wretched pittance, she makes no complaint.

The consummating hour is come!
Alas for Solyma,

How is she desolate,

She that was great among the nations, fallen!

And thou-thou miserable kingWhere is thy trusted flock,