Were to my keeping trusted. Now, alas!

They are demanded. Must they be restor❜d?
Or may I not a little longer gaze,

Upon their dazzling hues ?"

His eye grew stern,

And on his lip there lurk'd a sudden curl
Like indignation. "Doth my wife propose
Such doubt? as if the owner might not claim
His own again!" "Nay Rabbi, come behold
Those precious jewels ere I yield them back.”

So to their curtain'd chamber with slow step,
Her lord she led. There on a snow-white couch,
Lay his two sons, pale, pale and motionless;
Like fair twin-lillies, which some grazing kid,
In wantonness had cropp'd.

Light of my eyes!" the smitten father cried,

"My teachers in the law! whose guileless hearts, And prompt obedience, warn'd me oft to be,

More perfect with my God!"

To earth he fell,

Like Lebanon's rent cedar; while his breast

Heav'd with such groans, as when the labouring soul
Breaks from its clay companions' strong embrace.

The mourning mother turn'd away and wept,
Till his first storm of passionate grief was still.
Then pressing to his ear her faded lip,
She sigh'd in tone of tremulous tenderness,
"Thou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield
The summon'd jewels. See! the Lord did give,
The Lord hath taken away."

"And blessed be his name.

Thrice blessed be Jehovah."

"Yea!" said the sire,

Even for thy sake,

Long he press'd

On those cold, marble brows, his quivering lip, Then kneeling low, those chasten'd spirits pour'd Their nightly homage.

DEATH.

CHILL'D by the piercing blast,
Or faint with vertic heat,

The wearied labourer hails the night,
And finds its slumber sweet:

While they whom idle years,

Of luxury impair,

Toss on the restless couch, or meet The dream of terror there.

The rich man moves in pomp,
To him the world is dear,
And every treasure twists a tie,
To bind him stronger here:

But he whose purest gold,

Is in the conscience stor'd, Is richer at the hour of death, Than with the miser's hoard.

When this short day of life,
With all its work is done,
The faithful servant of his God,

Doth hail the setting sun:

But they who waste their breath,
Dread the accusing tomb,

And the time-killer flies from death,
As from a murderer's doom.

So give us, Lord, to find,
When earth shall pass away,
That Sabbath-evening of the mind,
Which crowns a well-spent day,

That entering to thy rest,

Where toils and cares are o'er, We, with the myriads of the bless'd, May praise Thee, evermore.