—The mourning mother turn'd away and wept,
Till the first storm of passionate grief was still.
Then pressing to his ear her faded lip,
She sigh'd in tone of tremulous tenderness,
"Thou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield
The summon'd jewels.—See! the Lord did give,
The Lord hath taken away."
"Yea!" said the sire,
"And blessed he his name. Even for thy sake
Thrice blessed be Jehovah."—Long he prest
On those cold, beautiful brows his quivering lip,
While from his eye the burning anguish roll'd,
Then kneeling low, those chasten'd spirits pour'd
Their mighty homage.
THE MISLETOE AT THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.
Dark plant of Superstition's shade.
Why dost thou lift thy cheerless eye
Where reeks no Druid's purple blade,
To stain fair Freedom's chosen glade,
And dim her sun-bright sky?—
Sacred to orgies blind and base
Where human blood was sternly spilt,
How dar'st thou seek this holy place?—
Rude parasite! whose foul embrace
Has wreath'd the murderer's hilt.
