JAIRUS' DAUGHTER.

LUKE, VIII.

[First published in the North American Review.]

THEY have watched her last and quivering breath,
And the maiden's soul has flown;

They have wrapt her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.

But the mother casts a look behind,
And weeps for that fallen flower;

Nay, start not 't was the passing wind,

Those limbs have lost their power.

And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
Over which the faint light plays;

'Tis only the curtain's crimson glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.

Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?

And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
That bore her soul away?

She lies on her couch, all pale and hush'd,

And heeds not thy gentle tread,

And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crush'd, Which dies on its snowy bed.

Her mother has passed from that lonely room,

And the maid is still and pale,

Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,

And dark is the stiffen'd nail.

Her mother retires with folded arms,
And her head is bent in woe;
Her heart is shut to joys or harms,
No tear attempts to flow.

But listen! what name salutes her ear?

Jesus," she cries, "has no power here,
My daughter's spirit has flown!"

He leads the way to that cold white couch,

And bends o'er that senseless form;

She breathes! She breathes! at his hallow'd touch

The maiden's hand is warm.

And the fresh blood comes with its roseate hue,
And life spreads quick through her frame,
Her head is raised, and her step is true,

And she murmurs her mother's name.

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 1812.

JEPHTHAH'S RASH VOW.

THE battle had ceas'd, and the victory was won,
The wild cry of horror was o'er.

Now arose in his glory the bright beaming sun,
And with him, his journey the war-chief begun,
With a soul breathing vengeance no more.

The foes of his country lay strew'd on the plain A tear stole its course to his eye,

But the warrior disdain'd every semblance of pain,
He thought of his child, of his country again,
And suppress'd, while 't was forming, a sigh.

Oh, Father of light!" said the conquering chief, "The vow which I made, I renew;

'T was thy powerful arm gave the welcome relief, When I call'd on thy name in the fulness of grief,

And my hopes were but cheerless and few.

"An off'ring of love will I pay at thy fane,
An off'ring thou canst not despise :

The first being I meet, when I welcome again
The land of my fathers, I left not in vain,

With the flames on thy altar shall rise."

Now hush'd were his words, thro' the far spreading

bands,

Nought was heard but the foot-fall around

Till his feet in glad tread press his own native lands, And to heav'n are uplifted his conquering hands; Not a voice breaks the silence profound.

O, listen! at distance what harmonies sound,
And at distance, what maiden appears?

See, forward she comes with a light springing bound,
And casts her mild eye in fond ecstasy round

For a parent is seen through her tears!

Her harp's wildest chord gives a strain of delight;

A moment

she springs to his arms!

"My daughter, Oh God!"- Not the horrors of fight,

While legion on legion against him unite,

Could bring to his soul such alarms.