Prostrate, the patriarch own'd the outstretch'd rod,
And knew the fearful vision came from God.

And what, although the MIGHTY ONE's behest,
Touch'd in its tenderest fold the father's breast,
Demanded back the light, the hope, the stay,
The soothing blessing of his failing day,
He murmur'd not; he waver'd not; his will
Was firmly set, his faith unshaken still.

How terrible is time! to hearts forlorn

That weep the night, yet dread the coming morn.
In silent woe the patriarch watch'd, till light

Ting'd with red streak the distant mountain's height;
Then he uprose; and morning's rising sun
Beheld his task of agony begun.

The promis'd son of hope, that grac'd his side,
His bosom's comfort and his age's pride,

Led the sad patriarch forth, at God's command,
To desolate Moriah's distant land.

Silent they journey ;—for the burden'd heart,
Though the clos'd lips reveal not, will impart

Its sadden'd sentiment; and Isaac's breast,
Unknowing why, a kindred gloom confest.
Silent they wend; or if, perchance, the boy,
In the glad sprightliness of youthful joy,
With tale of cheerfulness, or mirthful wile,
Seeks of the way its sadness to beguile,

He marks, too surely, in th' averted eye,

The darkening brow, the check'd, but heart-drawn

sigh,

That tale, or chaunt of cheerfulness are vain

To charm away the deep, but untold pain
That jarr'd discordant to the tone of mirth,
And bow'd his father's spirit to the earth.
Mournful they journey; till the evening star
Wheels o'er their weary heads his silver car;
And soft, o'er earth, her veil meek twilight throws
And calls the way-worn pilgrims to repose.

How beautiful in youth, that sleeper's head! O'er which the moon her trembling glory shed. But, to the soul more touching seem'd, in age, And woe's lone majesty, the patriarch sage,

Who with a form unbent, a step untir'd,
The fainting body by the mind inspir'd,
Sublime in grief, uprais'd his tearless eyes
With faith and resignation to the skies!

They journey'd forward with the rising sun;
And soon Moriah's land their steps have won.
Holds thy high purpose Abraham to fulfil
With firm obedience Heaven's Almighty will?
It holds ! it holds! his faith is found above
The powerful yearnings of parental love!
And Angels look from forth their native skies
To note and hail the glorious sacrifice * !

And now behold the gentle victim bound, The father's locks of silver sweep the ground, Whilst the lone desert's viewless spirits bear High to the throne of God the heart-wrung prayer.

* We are told that the angels in heaven rejoice over the sinner who repents. May we not, therefore, suppose, they look with satisfaction on the good man's struggles in the path of duty?

"Oh Thou Almighty One! whose blest command Call'd me from dark Chaldea's idol land;

Who pouredst o'er my error-blinded sight

The piercing glory of thy heavenly light;

Whose bounteous hand, from youth to age, hath shed
The dew of blessing on thy servant's head;
Prostrate I bow, thy high command before;

And at thy word, Almighty God! restore

The gift-thy last-most treasured-and, most fairAnd, to my heart, than life,-Thou know'st,-more

dear :

But, 'tis thy will-my Father!-'tis thy will!

Oh! nerve these feeble sinews to fulfil

The bidding of my spirit, and complete

The sacrifice

my

Maker deemeth meet!"

The prayer was ended. And he rais'd on high
The shining blade to strike :-and turn'd his eye,
Tranc'd in an ecstasy of holy love,

From this dark weeping world-to that above.
Now, Abraham, why delays thy lifted hand?

Oh! Abraham pauses, but at God's command.

For lo! before his uprais'd orbs of sight,
Cloth'd in pure radiance of celestial light,
An angel form appear'd, who bore the word
Of Heaven's Almighty, mercy-loving Lord!

"Withhold thy hand! O thou well-serving one! The Lord accepts thy faith, and spares thy son. And, for the off'ring of thy dearest, best,

And tenderest feelings, thou, thy God hath blest:
Yea, thy grand sacrifice of earthly love,
Jehovah hath beheld, and doth approve!"

Such were the blessed words he seem'd to hear
Tremble in solemn murmurs on his ear:
Oh! who can tell the feelings that impart
Those mystic accents to his throbbing heart!
Like the vain phantom of a troubled dream,
His hour of recent trial-time doth seem :
Its sufferings overpaid by that rich word,
That testify'd the pleasure of the Lord!