He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall About him decently, and left him there As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were caroling as life Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham’s tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead, were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her with his hand Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor, Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother’s face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swelled, Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily? His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there, and though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. Oh! man may bear with suffering; his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality; but tear One cord affection clings to, part one tie That binds him to a woman’s delicate love, And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness.