304 SELECT POETRY
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound

thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear ?

‘What have I said, my child ? Will He not hea
thee
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ?
Will Hz not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with
joy ?—
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy !

“TI give thee to thy God!—the God that gave
thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart !
And, precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, Hz shall have thee,
My own, wy beautiful, my undefiled !
And thou shalt be H1s child.

“Therefore, farewell !—I go; my soul may fail

me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks;
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail

me};
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of strength— Farewell.”
Mrs, Hemans