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His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke:

‘Isaac! my only son!’ The boy looked up,

And Abraham turned his face away, and wept.

‘Where is the lamb, my father?’ Oh! the tones,

The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!

How it doth agonize at such an hour!

It was the last, deep struggle. Abraham held

His loved, his beautiful, his only son,

And lifted up his arm, and called on God—

And lo! God’s Angel stayed him; and he fell

Upon his face and wept.

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The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low

On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still

Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,

Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way

And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.

How strikingly the course of nature tells,

By its light heed of human suffering,

That it was fashioned for a perfect world!