Sketches

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 tremulous forest leaf 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, Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont To gaze upon the gorgeous orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of one 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 Of noontide sultriness; and that bright sun! He looketh at its pencilled messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if light Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven. Ah! he is waiting till it herald in 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. Would she have watched their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child; The bright sun throwing back the old man’s shade, In straight and fair proportions, as of one Erect in early vigor. He stood up Firm in his better strength, and like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. 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. But the young boy, he of the laughing eye And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him.