3414

VOL. XI.]

The District School Journal,

Is published monthly, and is devoted exclusively to the promotion of Popular Education.

SAMUEL S. RANDALL, EDITOR. TERMS Single copies 50 cents; seven copies $3,00; twelve copies $5,00; twenty-five copies $10,00, payable always in

advance.

All letters and communications intended for the Dis

trict School Journal, should be directed to the Editor, Alba

ny,

N. Y., Post Paid.

Printed by E. P. ALLEN, at the Office of the Merchant's Tradesman's Journal, No. 9 Spruce St., New-York.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE HEBREW MOTHER'S SACRIFICE.

"There's none in this cold, hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's breast."

In ebon folds of pale and glim'ring light,
Night's drapery o'er the sleeping earth was thrown;
And hung on Nile's dark waters low and still;
And rested on the deep, thick forest tree,
With gloomy darkness.

Alone, upon a cliff that overlooked

A yawning precipice, WYOMA stood,

And gazed steadfastly, with a soul-lit eye,
Into those dark blue waters that flowed fast.
Her heart was sorrowful and well nigh crushed
Beneath its heavy bitterness of grief.
Hither she came, at this lone midnight hour,
To hold sweet converse with her Spirit-God,
That she might be prepared to meet her doom.
In vain she bent her listening ear below,

As though she thought to catch some soothing tone;
All desolate and wild the night-wind moaned
Amid the dark thick forest; and as it stirred
The proud tall woodland pines, and tossed the wave,
It chilled her brow, as 'twere the hand of death.
Still on, the waters o'er the rocks below,
Dashed angrily, as though impatiently
They waited for their rich and promised boon;
And from beneath those troubled waves there came
A voice that murmured fearfully and wild.
It said, that ere the morrow's sun goes down,
Thy child, thy only child, shall be no more!
Like winter's stern and icy breath that binds
The waters dancing in their mirth and glee;
E'en so that tempest dirge with fiercer power
Sealed up the deepest fountain of her soul;
And e'en like harp-strings, broken by some rude,
Unwelcome blast, so died the music of

Her heart away, as day's first dawn lit up

The spot that claimed her priceless grant.

And morn with oriental lovliness adorned the many hills, And Beauty's gorgeous, rosy smiles played on the silvery sparkling rills.

A rich and royal robe, of gold and purple, softly fell Enwrapping in its folds of light, the forest wood and dell. The Nile's proud waters ceased their wrath, and sported in the summer breeze,

As

golden light stole through the rich green drapery of the forest trees,

Sweet music on the soft gale came from perfumed vine and flower,

Like spirit voices from Elysian's bright and rosy bower. With sweet and holy charm those strains upon Wyoma's spirit fell,

And did with angel soothings each wild despair and sorrow quell.

Tranquilly she gazed upon the fairest woodland beauties nigh,

And thought how blest a thing for her fair child in this gay time to die.

Low on the moss-spread bank she knelt and bowed at the blest throne of prayer,

And sweet and clear her voice was borne on morning's balmy air.

E'en while the orison divine was breathed,

The child slept in its rosy innocence;

And as the soft wind through the lattice stole,
It kissed her brow, and waved her tresses,
That lay in jetty wealth upon her breast,
Like tasseled branches in the glad sunlight.
She woke, and angel beauty robed her face.
Like moss-buds opening to the morning's dawn,
So ope'd her eyes of azure-hue, deep-fringed
With wealth of snowy lids. Light she bounded
From white robed couch, for she did early miss
Her mother's breathings soft, and tender clasp,
And gazed without her vine-clad window, down
The woodland dell; but the thick foliage shut
In her view. Then nature led her steps.
She joyous passed the flow'ry mead and glen,
'Till through the jessamine and the myrtle vine
Which wreathed the forest trees, she saw the well
Known form. In all the fondness of her deep
And loving soul, she gladly fell upon
Her mother's breast, and as she kissed her pale,
Soft cheek, she felt a tear fall from above.
She earnest gazed into Wyoma's eyes,
And in childish accent wondered what
Should make the flowers to weep, for she till now
Had never seen a tear, save from her own
Bright eye.

The saddened day passed slowly on, and sun
Sank low. The hour, the fearful hour drew nigh: