| |
| MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds | |
| Are putting on their gold and violet, | |
| To look the meeter for the sun’s bright coming | |
| Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; | |
| And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf | 5 |
| To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet | |
| There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, | |
| And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms | |
| Of crimson roses in a holy rest. | |
| How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet— | 10 |
| Ay, beautifully meet—for the pure prayer. | |
| The patriarch standeth at his tented door, | |
| With his white locks uncovered. ’T is his wont | |
| To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient; | |
| And at that hour the awful majesty | 15 |
| Of man who talketh often with his God | |
| Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow | |
| As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth | |
| To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, | |
| And boweth to his staff as at the hour | 20 |
| Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun— | |
| He looketh at its pencilled messengers, | |
| Coming in golden raiment, as if all | |
| Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. | |
| Ah, he is waiting till it herald in | 25 |
| The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! | |
| |
| Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands | |
| Watching the steps of Abraham and her child | |
| Along the dewy sides of the far hills, | |
| And praying that her sunny boy faint not. | 30 |
| Would she have watched their path so silently, | |
| If she had known that he was going up, | |
| E’en in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain | |
| As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod | |
| Together onward, patriarch and child,— | 35 |
| The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade | |
| In straight and fair proportions, as of one | |
| Whose years were freshly numbered. He stood up, | |
| Tall in his vigorous strength; and, like a tree | |
| Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. | 40 |
| His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, | |
| And left his brow uncovered; and his face, | |
| Impressed with the stern majesty of grief | |
| Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth | |
| Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. | 45 |
| But the young boy—he of the laughing eye | |
| And ruby lip—the pride of life was on him. | |
| He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew, | |
| And the aroma of the spicy trees, | |
| And all that giveth the delicious East | 50 |
| Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light | |
| Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts | |
| With love and beauty. Everything he met, | |
| Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing | |
| Of bird or insect, or the palest dye | 55 |
| Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; | |
| And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, | |
| As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung | |
| Away to some green spot or clustering vine, | |
| To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree | 60 |
| And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; | |
| And he would crouch till the old man came by, | |
| Then bound before him with his childish laugh, | |
| Stealing a look behind him playfully, | |
| To see if he had made his father smile. | 65 |
| The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up | |
| From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat | |
| Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, | |
| And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. | |
| Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, | 70 |
| Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside | |
| To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips | |
| In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, | |
| Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness | |
| Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot | 75 |
| To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, | |
| And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings | |
| As in the early morning; but he kept | |
| Close by his father’s side, and bent his head | |
| Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, | 80 |
| Lifting it not, save now and then to steal | |
| A look up to the face whose sternness awed | |
| His childishness to silence. | |
It was noon,—
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself, | |
| And buried up his face, and prayed for strength. | 85 |
| He could not look upon his son and pray; | |
| But, with his hand upon the clustering curls | |
| Of the fair kneeling boy, he prayed that God | |
| Would nerve him for that hour. Oh, man was made | |
| For the stern conflict. In a mother’s love | 90 |
| There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, | |
| Woven with every fibre of her heart, | |
| Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; | |
| But love in man is one deep principle, | |
| Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, | 95 |
| Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid | |
| The wood upon the altar. All was done. | |
| He stood a moment,—and a deep, quick flush | |
| Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved | |
| His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke,— | 100 |
| “Isaac! my only son!” The boy looked up, | |
| And Abraham turned his face away, and wept. | |
| “Where is the lamb, my father?” Oh, the tones, | |
| The sweet, the thrilling music of a child! | |
| How it doth agonize at such an hour! | 105 |
| It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held | |
| His loved, his beautiful, his only son, | |
| And lifted up his arm, and called on God,— | |
| And lo! God’s angel stayed him,—and he fell | |
| Upon his face, and wept. | 110 |
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