The Hebrew Mother.[333]

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain, When a young mother, with her first-born, thence Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow’d Unto the Temple service. By the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, To bring before her God. So pass’d they on O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose, As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, Making its bank green gems along the wild, There, too, she linger’d, from the diamond wave Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach’d, The earth’s one sanctuary--and rapture hush’d Her bosom, as before her, through the day, It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep’d In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung even as joy clings--the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,--

“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-- How shall I hence depart?

“How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair!

“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn’d from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill?

“Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep’s low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake.

“And thou, will slumber’s dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother’s hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear?

“What have I said, my child! Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

“I give thee to thy God--the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be His child.

“Therefore, farewell! I go--my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks. But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, The Rock of Strength.--Farewell!”

“It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans.”--Blackwood’s Magazine. Jan. 1826.

[“It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in England. ‘The Treasures of the Deep,’ ‘The Hour of Death,’ ‘The Graves of a Household,’ ‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ are all admirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans’ genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. ‘The Hebrew Mother’ has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the ‘Hebrew Mother.’”--Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 114-15.

“Her ‘Voice of Spring,’ her ‘Hour of Death,’ her ‘Treasures of the Deep,’ her ‘Graves of a Household,’ her ‘England’s Dead,’ her ‘Trumpet,’ her ‘Hebrew Mother,’ and a host of similar pieces--these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans’ lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces.”--Literary Magnet, 1826.]

THE WRECK.

All night the booming minute-gun Had peal’d along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India’s coral strand, Before the raging blast, Had vail’d her topsails to the sand, And bow’d her noble mast.

The queenly ship!--brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn-- A star once o’er the seas,-- Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away, The rocks with pearls were sown; And, strangely sad, the ruby’s ray Flash’d out o’er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o’er, Like ashes by a breeze; And gorgeous robes--but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low, A crush’d reed thrown aside; Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died. And near him on the sea-weed lay-- Till then we had not wept-- But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had press’d With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dash’d o’er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child’s form, Where still their wet long streamers hung All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Gleam’d up the boy’s dead face, Like slumber’s, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet-eye-- He had known little of her dread, Naught of her agony!

O human love! whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu-- Surely thou hast another lot: There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea!