Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands, Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watched their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child; The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade, In straight and fair proportions, as of one Erect in early vigor. He stood up Firm in his better strength, and like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncovered; and his face, Impressed with the stern majesty of grief, Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy, he of the laughing eye And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him. He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Floating or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place, And he would crouch till the old man came by, 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 Like a light veil from nature, and the 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 his 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 light wings and gaudy flowers, 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.