Phenix gazette. [volume] (Alexandria [D.C.]) 1825-1833, 1826-06-15
POETRY.
From the Nro York Mirror e Ladies' Literary Gesette
THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM.

The following lines, from the pen OF young native
,ar are in every respect so emnenty beautiful that
bey naturally raise in us the most sangune expecta-
ions of pre-emnent talent in the future productions OF
i'm whose early efforts successful. 1t would be
cult TO find among the works of our greatest poets
niece Of the same character and length which pos
rsses stronger claims upon our admiration. The har-
nony and force of the vershcation, and the pctur-
sque beauty ofthe description, are only excelled by
he tone of feeling and the exquisite touches OF nature
ghch these lines display.
Morn break eth in the East The purple clouds
Are putting on their gold and violet.
To look the meeter of the suns bright coming.
Sleep is upon the waters and the wind;
And nature from the wary forest-leaf
To her majestic master, sleeps Asy
There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
An; the Clear dew is on the blushing blossoms
of crimson roses in holy rest.
How hallowed is the hour of morning. meet,
Alphabetically meet, for the pure prayer.
The patriarch standeth at his tented door
With his white locks uncovered IT'S his wont
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty
OF man who talketh often with his God,
Is wont to again and ciothe his brow
y
To be forcet'ul of his vigorous frame,
And boweth to his staff as at the hour
OF noontide sultriness. And that bright sun
He lookcth a, its pencilPd messengers
Coming in golden rament. as # all
We're but craven scroll offearfuness.
Ali, he is waiting till it herald in
The hour 70 sacrifice his much !ovd SON.
Light poureth on the world And Sarah stands,
v atchug the steps of Abraham and her child
Aioag the dewy sides of the far hills,
And praying that her sunny boy faint not
Would she have WATCHED their path so silently,
If she mad known that he was going up,
Ev'n in his fair hard beauty, TO be slain
As white lamb for sacrificed they trod
Together onward. patriarch and child
The bright sun throwing back the old mans shade
In straight and fair proportions, as of one
Whose wears were freshly Numbered. He stood up
Even in his vigorous youth, and like tree
Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not;
His inn, white hairs had yielded to the wind,
And eft his brow uncovered; and his face,
Impressed with the stern majesty Of grief
Ncrved to a solemn duty, now stood forth
Like rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.
But the young boy-he Of the laughing eye
And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him.
He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew,
And the aroma of the spicy trees,
And all that giveth the delicious east
Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light
Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts
With love and beauty. Every thing he met
Bouyant or beautiful, the highest wing
Ofbrd or insect, or the palest dye
Ofthe fresh flowers, won him from his path,
And ioyously broke forth his tin, shout
AS he flung back his silken hair and sprung
Away to some green spo, or clustering vine,
To pluck his infant trophies Every tree
And fragment shrub was new hiding-place,
Aud he would crouch till the old man came by
Then bound before him with his childish laugh
Ste spng look behind him payfully,
To see if he had made his father smile.
The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up
From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat
Game Ike sleep upon the delicate leaves,
Ard bent them with the blossoms to their dreams.
still trod the patriarch on with that same step,
Firm and unfsultering, 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. WEAKNESS
Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot
To toss the sunny hair from of mis- brow,
And spring for the fresh flowers on light wings,
As in the early morning; but he kept
Close BY his fathers side, and bent his head
Upon his bosom like dropping bud,
Lifting it not, save now and then to steal
A look up to the face whose sternness awed
His childshness to silence.
II was noon
And Abraham on Moriah how'd himself,
And buried up his face, and pny'd for strength.
He could not look upon his son and pray,
But with his hand upon the clustering curls
of the iair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God
Would nerve him for that hour. Oh man was made
For the stern conflict. In mo'her's love
There is more tenderness; the thousand cords
Woven with every fibre of her heart,
Complain, like delicate harR-strings, at breath;