It was noon; And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself, And buried up his face, and prayed 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 prayed 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 cords Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, yielding not to lighter influence, Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment, and a vivid flush Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke: ‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up, And Abraham turned 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. ABSALOM. The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low 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 perfect world!