The cattle of the hills were in the shade, It was an hour of rest! but HAGAR found Of the thick pines-and tried to comfort him; Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd: "God stay thee in thine agony, my boy: I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook And see death settle on my cradle-joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye! And could I see thee die? "I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; Or wiling the soft hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, "Oh, no! and when I watch'd by thee the while, In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee! And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; And, oh! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. She stood beside the well her God had given SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I love to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are wellnigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world at best is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness To see the young so gay. THE ANNOYER. Love knoweth every form of air, He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream, And he'll float to his eye in the morning light, He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud, and the open sky, He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye. The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he: He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh. REVERIE AT GLENMARY. I have enough, O God! My heart to-night Rich, though poor! My low-roof'd cottage is this hour a heaven. Thou, who look'st Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, |