The Poetical Works | Page 4

on their toilsome way,
"Father, no victim is near,"

But with heavy sigh and tear-dimmed eye,
In accents sad though clear,

Abraham answered: "The Lord, our guide,
A fitting sacrifice will
provide."
The altar made and the fuel laid,
Lo! the victim stretched thereon
Is
Abraham's son, his only one,
Who at morning's blushing dawn
Had
started with smiles that care defied
To travel on at his father's side.
With grief-struck brow the Patriarch now
Bares the sharp and
glittering knife;
On that mournful pyre, oh hapless sire!
Must he
take his darling's life?
Will fails not, though his eyes are dim,
God
gave his boy--he belongs to him.
With anguish riven, he casts towards Heaven
One look, imploring,
wild,
That doth mutely pray for strength to slay
His own, his only
child;
When forth on the air swells a glad command,
And an angel
stays his trembling hand.
The offering done, the sire and son
Come down Moriah's steep,
Joy
gleaming now on Abraham's brow,
In his heart thanksgiving deep;

While with love from His lofty and glorious Throne
Heaven's King
hath smiled on sire and son.
THE STABLE OF BETHLEHEM.
'Twas not a palace proud and fair
He chose for His first home;
No
dazz'ling pile of grandeur rare,
With pillar'd hall and dome;
Oh no!
a stable, rude and poor,
Received Him at His birth;
And thus was
born, unknown, obscure,
The Lord of Heaven and Earth.

No band of anxious menials there,
To tend the new-born child,

Joseph alone and Mary fair
Upon the infant smiled;
No broidered
linens fine had they
Those little limbs to fold,
No baby garments
rich and gay,
No tissues wrought with gold.
Come to your Saviour's lowly bed,
Ye vain and proud of heart!
And
learn with bowed and humbled head
The lesson 'twill impart;
'Twill
teach you not to prize too high
The riches vain of earth--
But to lay
up in God's bright sky
Treasures of truer worth.
And you, poor stricken sons of grief,
Sad outcasts of this life,
Come,
too, and seek a sure relief
For your heart's bitter strife;
Enter that
village stable door,
And view that lowly cot--
Will it not teach you
to endure,
And even bless your lot?
VIRGIN OF BETHLEHEM.
Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!
Star of the pilgrim on
life's stormy sea!
Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly
one,
List to the prayers that we offer to thee!
Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,
Empty and fleeting as
April sunshine,
But for the grace that from holiness floweth,
Grace,
purest Mother, that always was thine.
Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
Thine was the will of thy
Father above,
Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded
Cold
hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.
Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
Bowed thee, unmurm'ring,
beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
Made thee the
Temple and Mother of God.
These are the gifts that thy children implore,
With hearts warmly
beating, and low bended knee;
Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly

adore,
To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.
THE PURIFICATION.
Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high--
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky--
Lighting its
gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil--from
gaze profane that hid the ark of old.
Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and
bright:
Agate and porphyry--precious gems--cedar and ivory white,

Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare, With
sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.
But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high, A
female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye;--
A girl she
seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face-- With locks of
gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.
Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born
child,
Late entered on this world of woe--still pure and undefiled;
While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there Tell that,
despite her girlish years, she knows a matron's care.
No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the
view,
E'en had He been the child of sin--and she a sinner, too;
But
how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on,
Knowing Him, as the Temple's Lord--the Word--th'Eternal Son!
While she was that Maid Mother rare--fairest of Adam's race, Whom
Heaven's Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of
grace,--
The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast--
the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women blessed.

OUR SAVIOUR'S BOYHOOD.
With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
Each Christian breast must
swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
With simple faith
they dwell
On quiet Nazareth's sacred sod,
Where the Child
Saviour's footsteps trod.
Awe-struck we picture to ourselves
That brow serene and fair,
That
gentle face, the long rich curls
Of wavy golden hair,
And those
deep wondrous, star-like eyes,
Holy and calm as midnight skies.
We see Him in the work-shop shed
With Joseph, wise and good,

Obedient to His guardian's word,
Docile and meek of mood;
The
Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth
Toiling like one of lowly