Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon-- And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment--and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerv'd His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke-- "Isaac! my only son!"--The boy look'd up And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept. "Where is the lamb, my father?"--Oh the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!-- How it doth agonize at such an hour!-- It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and called on God-- And lo! God's angel stayed him--and he fell Upon his face and wept. --_N. P. Willis._ A SOLITARY WAY. There is a mystery in human hearts, And though we be encircled by a host Of those who love us well, and are beloved, To every one of us, from time to time, There comes a sense of utter loneliness. Our dearest friend is "stranger" to our joy, And cannot realize our bitterness. "There is not one who really understands, Not one to enter into _all_ I feel;" Such is the cry of each of us in turn, We wander in a "solitary way," No matter what or where our lot may be; Each heart, mysterious even to itself, Must live its inner life in solitude.