RUTH'S ANSWER TO NAOMI.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Entreat me not, I must not hear,
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear;
Thy answer's written deeply now
On this warm cheek and clouded brow;
'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness
Which only near thee sparkles gladness.
The hearts most dear to us are gone,
And thou and I are left alone;
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go,
I'll follow thee through joy or woe;
Shouldst thou to other countries fly,
Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.

Thy people shall my people be,
And to thy God, I'll bend the knee;
Whither thou fliest, will I fly,
And where thou diest, I will die;
And the same sod which pillows thee
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me.

DAVID AND JONATHAN.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain,
The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain;
O publish it not in proud Askelon's street,
Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet,

For how are the mighty fallen!

O mount of Gilboa, no dew shalt thou see,
Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee;
For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead,
Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed!

O how are the mighty fallen!

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave! What breast will now pity, what arm will now save? O my brother! my brother! this heart bleeds for thee, For thou wert a friend and a brother to me!

Ah, how are the mighty fallen!

THE SICK-BED.

(Written in her fifteenth year.)

O have you watched beside the bed,
Where rests the weary, aching head?
And have you heard the long, deep groan,
The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone?

O have you seen the fevered sleep,
Which speaks of agony within?
The eye which would, but cannot weep,
And wipe away the stains of sin?

O have you marked the struggling breath,
Which would but cannot leave its clay?
And have you marked the hand of death
Unbind, and bid it haste away?

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel;
Then thou hast read thy future doom;
O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal,
There's no repentance in the tomb.

DEATH.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light,
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night;
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose,
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows.

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death!
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe.

TO MY MOTHER.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

O say, amid this wilderness of life,

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? Who would have smiled responsive? - who in grief, Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?

None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,

Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom—
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,

That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou? The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy brow;

The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad,
And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud.
From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave,
Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the grave;
A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright,
Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned
with the light.

Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire;
The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir;
They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast,
A slumb❜ring volcano, an earthquake at rest.

Thou hast looked on the isle - thou hast looked on the wave

Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave;
Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing,
Thou spark from the fallen one's wide flaming wing.

THE PROPHECY.

TO A LADY.

(Written in her sixteenth year.)

Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow,
On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow;
Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,
I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.
That brow may beam in glory awhile;
That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
That full, dark eye may brightly beam
In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;