62 THE SHUNAMMITE II Kings iv. 18-20 It was a sultry day of summer time; The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain "Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said, Lifted with watchful care; and o'er the hills, Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Closed as with dizzy pain; and with his hand They bore him to his mother, and he lay 'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins. -So still! Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek! How could they say that he would die! O God! His childhood in my heart, and even now, 66 -Yet so still !— How like this breathless slumber is to death! There were no pulse-it beats so languidly! 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— -Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair- She whisper'd in his ear, “My son!-my son!" As if death had no power to touch him there! The man of God came forth, and led the child * NATHANIEL P. WILLIS 63 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB II Kings xix. 35 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, The host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, The host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and forever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. |