Читать книгу Sketches онлайн

2 страница из 12

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,