He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—

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 poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,

In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who were made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"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 these 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!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

9. William Gilmore Simms (1806-1870) was a talented Southern novelist and poet. His tales show the influence of Brown and Cooper. The Partisan, published in 1835, is numbered among his best stories. One of his poems follows.

Not in the sky,

Where it was seen

THE LOST PLEIAD

So long in eminence of light serene,

Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave,

Nor down, in mansions of the hidden deep,

Though beautiful in green

And crystal, its great caves of mystery,

Shall the bright watcher have

Her place, and, as of old, high station keep!

Gone! gone!

Oh! nevermore, to cheer

The mariner, who holds his course alone
On the Atlantic, through the weary night,

When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep,
Shall it again appear,

With the sweet-loving certainty of light,
Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills
Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks,
He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze,
Gladding his gaze,-

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,

Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways!
How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze,

Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful vault!-how lingers, in the hope that night
May yet renew the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!

And lone,

Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone,
Brood the once happy circle of bright stars:
How should they dream, until her fate was known,
That they were ever confiscate to death?
That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars,

And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
That they should fall from high;

Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die,

All their concerted springs of harmony

Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone!

Ah! still the strain

Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky;
The sister stars, lamenting in their pain
That one of the selectest ones must die,-
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis ever thus the destiny.

Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone
Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone.
The hope most precious is the soonest lost,
The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost.
Are not all short-lived things the loveliest?
And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest, as they fly
From the lone sphere they blest?

IO.

10. Richard Henry Dana, Jr. (1815-1882) was born in Cambridge, Mass., and was educated at Harvard. While at college he interrupted his course to take a two years' voyage to the Pacific coast on account of his health. He shipped as a common sailor, and his experiences form the subject-matter of Two Years Before the Mast (1840), the book which has made

his name famous. Mr. William J. Long calls this book a veritable classic and says: After more than half a century we can still recommend it as a virile, wholesome story, and as probably the best reflection of sailor life in the old days when American ships and seamen were known and honored the world over."

A FLOGGING AT SEA

(From Two Years Before the Mast)

(CHAPTER XV)

For several days the captain seemed very much out of humour. Nothing went right or fast enough for him. He quarrelled with the cook, and threatened to flog him for throwing wood on deck, and had a dispute with the mate about reeving a Spanish burton; the mate saying that he was right, and had been taught how to do it by a man who was a sailor! This the captain took in dudgeon and they were at swords' points at once. But his displeasure was chiefly turned against a large, heavy-moulded fellow from the Middle States, who was called Sam. This man hesitated in his speech, was rather slow in his motions, and was only a tolerably good sailor, but usually seemed to do his best; yet the captain took a dislike to him, thought he was surly and lazy, and "if you once give a dog a bad name" as the sailor-phrase is "he may as well jump overboard." The captain found fault with everything this man did, and hazed him for dropping a marline-spike from the mainyard, where he was at work. This, of course, was an accident, but it was set down against him. The captain was on board all day Friday, and everything went on hard and disagreeably. "The more you drive a man, the less he will do," was as true with us as with any other people. We worked late Friday night, and were turned-to early Saturday morning. About ten o'clock the captain ordered our new officer, Russell, who by this time had become thoroughly disliked by all the crew, to get the gig ready to take him ashore. John, the Swede, was sitting in the boat alongside, and Mr. Russell and I were standing by the main hatchway, waiting for the captain, who was