And parchments old with passionate hold
They guarded heretofore;

And they carped at signature and seal,
But they may carp no more.

"An old affront will stir the heart
Through years of rankling pain,
And I feel the fret that urged me yet
That warfare to maintain;

For an enemy's loss may well be set
Above an infant's gain.

"An enemy's loss I go to prove;
Laugh out, thou little heir!
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase
Thee from thy birthright fair;
For I come to set thee in thy place:
Laugh out, and do not spare."

A man of strife, in wrathful mood
He neared the nurse's door;
With poplar leaves the roof and eaves
Were thickly scattered o'er,

And yellow as they a sunbeam lay
Along the cottage floor.

66

Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb,"
He hears the fond nurse say;

"And if angels stand at thy right hand,

As now belike they may,

And if angels stand at thy bed's feet,
I fear them not this day.

"Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart,

It was all one to me,

For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung

Than coinèd golden fee;

And ever the while thy waking smile
It was right fair to see.

"Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know
Who grudged and who transgressed;
Thee to retain I was full fain,

But God, He knoweth best!

And His peace upon thy brow lies plain
As the sunshine on thy breast!"

The man of strife, he enters in,

Looks, and his pride doth cease; Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow,

Trouble, and no release;

But the babe whose life awoke the strife

Hath entered into peace.

(By permission of the Author.)

493

40.-DEATH OF ABSALOM.

N. P. WILLIS.

[Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, U.S.A., January 20, 1817. Many of his sacred poems were written when he was in the seventeenth year of his age. Like most Americans of position, Mr. Willis made the grand tour, and visited Italy, Greece, Asia Minor, Turkey, France (where he was attached to the American Legation), and afterwards England. The letters he wrote while abroad, in which the confidences of private life were not always respected, were published in the "New York Mirror," under the title of "Pencillings by the Way." Mr. Willis contributed to the "New Monthly Magazine," and also published, in London, "Loiterings of Travel," and "Two Ways of Dying for a Husband." On his return to America, he was chiefly engaged in editing and writing for the journals of which he was part proprietor. He died 1867.]

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance.
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery--how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel—and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd 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 cherish'd him—for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controll'd,

Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

*

*

*

*

*

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd
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, soil'd
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd 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 fear'd the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, 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 bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!
Thou, who wert 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 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 call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd
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.

WIT AND HUMOUR.

1.-LOOK AT THE CLOCK!

REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

[The Rev. Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, 1789, and educated at Oxford. He was a minor canon of St. Paul's, and rector of St. Augustine and St. Faith's, London. Mr. Barham's mind literally overflowed with wit, and he never attempted to restrain it; but he tempered it with the learning and classical knowledge he brought to bear upon every subject that he touched. It has been truly said of him, "for originality of style and diction, for quaint illustration and the musical flow of his muse, his poetry is not surpassed by anything of the same kind in the English language.' Mr. Barham contributed many papers to the "Edinburgh Review," "Blackwood," and "Bentley's Miscellany;" it was in the latter, chiefly, that the "Ingoldsby Legends" first appeared. He died 1845.]

FYTTE I.

"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winnifred Pryce,
As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,
"You nasty warmint, look at the Clock!
Is this the way, you
Wretch, every day you

Treat her who vowed to love and obey you?-
Out all night!

Me in a fright!

Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute !-you insensible block!-
Look at the Clock!-Do!-Look at the Clock!"

Winnifred Pryce was tidy and clean,

Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoats green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,

And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;

Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,

Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket

holes;

A face like a ferret

Betoken'd her spirit:

To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Had