THE SHUNAMITE.

It was a sultry day of summer time.

The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain

With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves

Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills

Stood still, and the divided flock were all

Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,

And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd

As if the air had fainted, and the pulse

Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

‘ Haste thee, my child!’ the Syrian mother said,

‘ Thy father is athirst’ — and from the depths

Of the cool well under the leaning tree,

She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts

Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,

She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way

Committed him. And he went lightly on,

With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool

Stone vessel, and his little naked feet

Lifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills,

And thro’ the light green hollows, where the lambs

Go for the tender grass, he kept his way,

Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts,

Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows

Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down.

Childhood is restless ever, and the boy

Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree,

But with a joyous industry went forth

Into the reapers’ places, and bound up

His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly

The pliant withs out of the shining straw,

Cheering their labor on, till they forgot

The very weariness of their stooping toil

In the beguiling of his earnest mirth.

Presently he was silent, and his eye

Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand

Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast

Heaving with the suppression of a cry,

He uttered a faint murmur, and fell back

Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.

They bore him to his mother, and he lay

Upon her knees till noon — and then he died!

She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand

Soft on his forehead, and gaz'd in upon

The dreamy languor of his listless eye,

And she had laid back all his sunny curls,

And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him

Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong —

His beauty was so unlike death! She leaned

Over him now, that she might catch the low

Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd

To love when he was slumbering at her side

In his unconscious infancy —

— “So still!

‘ Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies,

With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins

Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek!

How could they say that he would die! Oh God!

I could not lose him! I have treasured all

His childhood in my heart, and even now,

As he has slept, my memory has been there,

Counting like ingots all his winning ways —

His unforgotten sweetness —

— “Yet so still!—

How like this breathless slumber is to death!

I could believe that in that bosom now

There were no pulse — it beats so languidly!

I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!—

Death would not be so very beautiful!

And that half smile — would death have left that there?

— And should I not have felt that he would die?

And have I not wept over him?— and prayed

Morning and night for him?— and could he die?

— No — God will keep him. He will be my pride

Many long years to come, and this fair hair

Will darken like his father's, and his eye

Be of a deeper blue when he is grown;

And he will be so tall, and I shall look

With such a pride upon him!— He to die!”

And the fond mother lifted his soft curls,

And smiled, as if‘ twere mockery to think

That such fair things could perish —

— Suddenly

Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled

From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees

Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd

His forehead, as she dallied with his hair —

And it was cold — like clay!— slow — very slow

Came the misgiving that her child was dead.

She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'd

In a still prayer for strength, and then she took

His little hand and press'd it earnestly —

And put her lip to his — and look'd again

Fearfully on him — and then, bending low,

She whisper'd in his ear, “My son!— My son!”

And as the echo died, and not a sound

Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still,

Motionless on her knee — the truth would come!

And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart

Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close

Into her bosom — with a mother's thought —

As if death had no power to touch him there!

The man of God came forth, and led the child

Unto his mother, and went on his way.

And he was there — her beautiful — her own —

Living and smiling on her — with his arms

Folded about her neck, and his warm breath

Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear

The music of his gentle voice once more!

Oh for a burning word that would express

The measure of a mother's holy joy,

When God has given back to her her child

From death's dark portal! It surpasseth words.