Sore was the famine throughout all the bounds Of Israel, when Elijah, by command
Of God, journeyed to Cherith's failing brook. No rain-drop falls; no dew-fraught cloud, at morn Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale; The withering herbage dies; among the palms, The shrivell'd leaves send to the summer gale An autumn's rustle; no sweet songster's lay Is warbled from the branches; scarce is heard The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around, And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head Upon the flowerless bank; serene he sleeps, Nor wakes till dawning: then, with hands enclasp'd, And heavenward face, and eyelids closed, he prays To Him who manna on the desert shower'd,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush; Entranced the man of God remains; till, roused By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart, He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.
It was a sultry day of summer time;
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots. And the sky looked like silver, and it seemed As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat.
"Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said, "Thy father is athirst "--and, from the depths Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, She blessed her handsome boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands pressed closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet
Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills, And through the light, green hollows, where the lambs
Go for the tender grass, he kept his way,
Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down.
Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stayed not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reapers' places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withes out of the shining straw- Cheering their labor on, till they forgot The heat and weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his playful mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye
Closed as with dizzy pain; and with his hand Pressed hard upon his forehead, and his breast Heaving with the suppression of a cry, He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.
They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon-and then he died. She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And kissed his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong- His beauty was so unlike death! She lean'd Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learned To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy-
'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins
Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek!
How could they say that he would die! O God!
I could not lose him! I have treasured all
His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there, Counting like treasures all his winning ways- His unforgotten sweetness.-
How like this breathless slumber is to death!
I could believe that in that bosom now
There were no pulse-it beats so languidly!
I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!
Death could not be so very beautiful!
And that half-smile-would death have left that there?
-And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him?—and prayed Morning and night for him?—and could he die? -No-God will keep him! He will be my pride Many long years to come, and his fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him!-He to die!" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish-
Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees
Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd
His forehead, as she dallied with his hair— And it was cold-like clay! Slow, very slow, Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand, and press'd it earnestly—
And put her lip to his-and look'd again Fearfully on him—then, bending low,
She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!-my son!" And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still- Motionless on her knee-the truth would come! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close Into her bosom-with a mother's thought-
As if death had no power to touch him there!
The man of God came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there-her beautiful-her own- Living, and smiling on her with his arms. Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once more!
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