Unveiled skin's whiteness lay,

Gold hairs in curls hung down,

Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day.

The flood a throne her reared

Of waves, most like that heaven

Where beaming stars in glory turn ensphered;
The air stood calm and clear,

No sigh by winds was given,

Birds left to sing, herds feed, her voice to hear.

World-wandering sorry wights,

Whom nothing can content

Within those varying lists of days and nights,

Whose life, e'er known amiss,

In glittering griefs is spent,

Come learn, said she, what is your choicest bliss;

From toil and pressing cares

How ye may respite find,

A sanctuary from soul-thralling snares,

A port to harbor sure

In spite of waves and wind,

Which shall, when Time's hour-glass is run, endure.

Not happy is that life

Which ye as happy hold,

No, but a sea of fears, a field of strife,

Charged on a throne to sit

With diadems of gold,

Preserved by force, and still observed by wit;

Huge treasures to enjoy,

Of all her gems spoil Ind,

All Seres' silk in garments to employ,
Deliciously to feed,

The Phoenix' plumes to find

To rest upon, or deck your purple bed.

*

No, but blest life is this,

With chaste and pure desire,

To turn unto the loadstar of all bliss,
On God the mind to rest,

Burnt up with sacred fire,

Possessing him, to be by him possest.

Swift is your mortal race,

And glassy is the field;

Vast are desires not limited by grace;

Life a weak taper is;

Then, while it light doth yield,

Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting bliss.

This when the nymph had said,

She dived within the flood,

Whose face with smiling curls long after staid;

Then sighs did zephyrs press,

Birds sang from every wood,

And echoes rang, This was true happiness!

William Drummond.

ABSALOM.

HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low

THE

On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled

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 leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned 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 shore 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 bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
O, when the heart is full, — when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,

And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
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, O, 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 Judæa's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewelled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod tɔ 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 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;