Abraham at Macpelah

Deep wrapp'd in shadesOlive and terebinth, its vaulted doorFleck'd with the untrain'd vine and matted grass,Behold Macpelah's cave.Hark! hear we notA voice of weeping? Lo, yon aged manBendeth beside his dead. Wave after waveOf memory rises, till his lonely heartSees all its treasures floating on the flood,Like rootless weeds.The earliest dawn of loveIs present with him, and a form of grace,Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall:And then, the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes,And dulcet music, and the rites that blessThe Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene,Made happy by her tenderness, returnsTo mock his solitude, as the sharp lanceSevers the quivering nerve. His quiet homeGleams through the oaks of Mamre. There he sat,Rendering due rites of hospitalityTo guests who bore the folded wing of HeavenBeneath their vestments. And her smile was there,Among the angels.When her clustering curlsWore Time's chill hoar.frost, with what glad surprise,

What holy triumph of exulting faith,He saw fresh blooming in her wither'd armsA fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth.Forever blending with that speechless joyWhich thrill'd his soul, when first a father's nameFell on his ear, is that pale, placid browO'er which he weeps.Yet had he seen it wearAnother semblance, tinged with hues of thought,Perchance unlovely, in that trial-hour,When to sad Hagur's mute, reproachful eyeHe answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laidThe water-bottle and the loaf, and sentHer and her son, unfriended wanderers, forthInto the wilderness.Say, who can mournOver the smitten idol, by long yearsCemented with his being, yet perceiveNo dark remembrance that he fain would blot,Troubling the tear. If there were no kind deedOmitted, no sweet healing word of loveExpected, yet unspoken; no light toneThat struck discordant on the shivering nerve,For which the weeper fain would rend the tombTo cry forgive! oh, let him kneel and praiseGod amid all his grief.We may not sayIf aught of penitence was in the pangThat wrung the labouring breast, while o'er the dustOf Sarah, at Macpelah's waiting tomb,The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down,A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth.