But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies;
The lip which it foamed for is cold:

For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies,
And Sodom is wrapped in its fold.

The bride now is wedded-the bridegroom is Death,
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand;
Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath,
And Heaven's flames her nuptial band.

And near to that cold, that desolate sea,
Whose fruits now to ashes are turned,

Not a fresh-blooming flower, not one budding tree
Now grows where those cities were burned.

LUCRETIA DAVIDSON

13

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS

Genesis xxi. 14-19

The morning broke. Night stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And everything that bendeth to the dew And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light And loveliness and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores,

And the young birds were singing as if life
Were a new thing to them; but music came
Upon her ear like discord, and she felt
That pang of the unreasonable heart,
That, bleeding amid things it loved so well,
Would have some sign of sadness as they pass.
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed
Till the blood started; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes as it had been flame.

Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandalled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face, until he caught

The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,

As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

Why bends the Patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.

His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn

Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand.
In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

She went her way with a strong step and slow, Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As if it were a diamond, and her form

Borne proudly up as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had read
The dark look of his mother, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.
The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest! but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,-
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,—and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes

Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild.

She sat a little longer, and he grew

Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and watching him, she
mourned:-

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!

I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook

Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.

How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!

And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazelle amongst the flowers;
Or wiling the soft hours

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"Oh, no! and when I watched by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,-
How prayed I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

66

And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee!

And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And, oh, my last caress

Must feel thee cold; for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair?"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

*

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS

14

THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM

Genesis xxii

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 wavy 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.