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To toss his sunny hair from off his brow,

And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,

As in the early morning; but he kept

Close by his father’s side, and bent his head

Upon his bosom like a drooping bud,

Lifting it not, save now and then to steal

A look up to the face whose sternness awed

His childishness to silence.

It was noon;

And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,

And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.

He could not look upon his son and pray;

But with his hand upon the clustering curls

Of the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that God

Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made

For the stern conflict. In a mother’s love

There is more tenderness; the thousand cords

Woven with every fibre of her heart,

Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;

But love in man is one deep principle,

Which, yielding not to lighter influence,

Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid

The wood upon the altar. All was done.

He stood a moment, and a vivid flush

Passed o’er his countenance; and then he nerved