No. VII.
My soul has wooed you back,
ethereal forms,
It sought you in the stillness of the night,
When the world slept, and the pale stars looked
down,
In all their quiet beauty. Then my thoughts
Held commune with the secrets of the past,
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And yearned to be among you. Ye have come
In answer to my solitary call,
And fancy now exults to meet again
The sweet companions of her loneliness.
Ye return, ye return to my sight once more;
Sweet visions come thronging o’er heart and
brain,
Ye gladdened my life when its joys seemed o’er,
And freed my mind from a galling chain.
Ye return, ye return, and my bosom bounds
To welcome ye back, bright forms of air,
Oh, once more lighten life’s weary rounds,
And ease my heart of its weight of care.
The captive enfranchised when hope seemed past,
Hails not the first dawn of his liberty
(Tho’ the bounding pulse of his heart throb
fast,)
With half the delight I now welcome ye.
The cold world came between us and veiled my
sight,
And the glorious vision seemed passing away,
But ye come once again fair forms of light,
Ye come, and my spirit exults in her lay.
Jochebed
“My son, my pearl, my jewel without price,
Oh how my yearning heart will bleed for thee,
My lamb selected for the sacrifice,
Ah whither shall thy sorrowing mother flee?
Who will assuage my grief when thou art gone?
Who bid the craving of my bosom cease?
And yearning still for thee, my precious son,
Where shall I turn to find, the balm of
peace?
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Oh thou, my husband, stifle not my grief,
Thou addest torture to my wild despair,
Thou canst not give my aching breast relief,
The load is heavier than my heart can bear.
My boy, my treasure, must I part from thee,
Can my soul dream of thee as one departed?
Oh nought can quell my bitter agony,
When thou art gone, and I am BROKEN-HEARTED.
Ye are cruel thus to tear him from my heart,
I tell ye half my love is still unsaid,
And let me once, before he must depart,
Pillow upon my breast his precious head.
So let him lie, and as that gladsome smile
Lingers upon his lip, can I forbear
To press it with mine own, and thus beguile
The bitter workings of my fond despair?
Away! my arms shall bear him to his
rest.”
And now with trembling step she threads her
way,
And places him within his chilly nest,
And watches lest the rustling sedges play.
Too roughly with her rude and fragile ark,
That, like a stone unseemly to the view,
Contains within a glittering, living spark,
A treasure on those waters calm and blue.
Fond, mourning mother, it is Heaven’s decree;
In yielding him, thou givest a nation joy,
Quell, then, the torrent of thine agony,
And yield to God’s own hand thy cherished
boy,
Yet ‘twas a struggle bitter to thy heart,
Thus passing on thy lonely pilgrimage,
Nor can thy griefs, all humble as thou art,
Pass unregarded on our history’s page.
