HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.

The morning broke.

With a strange beauty.

I.

N. P. WILLES.

Light stole upon the clouds
Earth received again.

Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
And everything that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

II.

All things are dark to sorrow; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth. Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them; but music came Upon her ear like discord, and she felt That pang of the unreasonable heart, That, bleeding amid things it loved so well, Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood started; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame.

III.

Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face, until he caught

The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling

Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.

IV.

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard
Is low upon his breast, and high his brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.

His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigor is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as if it were a pestilence.

V.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand,
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

VI.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? O, no! by all her loveliness-by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers.

But, oh! estrange her once-it boots not how

By wrong or silence-anything that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness,—
And there is not a feeling out of Heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.

VII.

She went her way with a strong step and slowHer pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As if it were a diamond, and her form

Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had read
The dark look of his mother, and the seed
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

VIII.

The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest! but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lipe For water; but she could not give it him.

IX.

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,—
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,—and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.

X.

She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.

It was too inuch for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,

Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourned :

XI.

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

.XII.

• 1 did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;
Or wiling the soft hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

XIII.

"Oh, no! and when I watched by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,

And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,

How prayed I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

XIV.

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee! And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press⚫ And, oh! my last caress

Must feel thee cold; for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair!"

XV.

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

EXERCISE CXVI.

THOMAS B. SHAW, author of the following just and able sketch, has been engaged for some years as "Professor of English Literature in the Imperial Alexander Lyceum of St. Petersburg." The piece, given below, is abridged from his "Outlines of English Literature," a work remarkable for acute, large, and profound observation, liberal views of literary men, and a spirit and power of criticism honorable to his office as a public instructor.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

THOMAS B. SHAW.

1. The greatest figure, in this period of literary history, is undoubtedly SAMUEL JOHNSON. As a writer, he is the very incarnation of good sense; and, as a man, he was an example of so high a degree of virtue, magnanimity, and self-sacrifice, that he has been justly placed, by a profound modern speculator, among the heroes of his country's annals.

2. He was the son of a poor provincial bookseller, and was born at Litchfield, September 18th, 1709 :* affording another testimony of that truth so often exemplified in the history of literature, and so pithily expressed by an old writer,—“ That no great work, or worthy praise and memory, but came out of poor cradles! He was afflicted, even from his earliest years, with a

* Died in London, December 13th, 1784.